THE GENIUS

by

MARGARET POTTER

Author of"The House of De Mailly" "Istar of Babylon" Etc. Etc. 

London and New YorkHarper & Brothers Publishers1906Copyright, 1906, by Harper & Brothers. All rights reserved. Published March, 1906. 

TOMY BROTHEREDWARD CLEMENT POTTER

CONTENTS

CHAP. PAGE

 Prologue 3 I. The Czar's Ball 8 II. Michael 26 III. The Gregoriev Heir 42 IV. The Corps of Cadets 60 V. Death Joy 75 VI. Nathalie 90 VII. Spring and the Rose 105 VIII. In Camp 126 IX. "Half-gods Go" 156 X. Self-Destiny 184 XI. The Moscow Conservatoire 202 XII. The Gods Arrive 226 XIII. Student's Folly 255 XIV. The Third Section 272 XV. Engulfment 285 XVI. Joseph 302 XVII. Heritage 319 VIII. Joseph the Sower 337 XIX. His Harvest 353 XX. Madame Féodoreff 364 XXI. Tosca Regnant 381 XXII. The Lion 400 XXIII. The Hermit 427 Epilogue 446

THE GENIUS

THEMA

Hark, ye Great, that withdraw yourselves from the Multitude!_Loneliness_ is written for your word. Alone shall ye strive to solvethe riddle of Creation. 

Seek ye help of them that have gone before? Ye shall find it not. Dreamye of sympathy, of praise, from those that watch your work to-day? Theyshall give ye rather mockery. Finally, would ye leave to your childrenlegacies of wisdom that shall be as gold unto them? Lo! Such desire, also, must be vain. 

Dowered of Vision, Power or Wantonness, ye shall not escape this scourgeof Fate. Alone shall ye cut your way through the rock of Destiny up tothe High Place of Restitution. Yea! Solitary shall your labor be. Butout of solitude cometh, in good time, that Understanding of the Law thatall, at last, must seek--and find. 

THE GENIUS

PROLOGUE

THE ANNUNCIATION

In the Western world of the revised calendar it was the evening ofJanuary twelfth. In Russia it was New Year's night, of the year 1840. The year was twenty-three hours old; for the bells of the three churchesin Klin had just chimed eleven times. But in "Maidonovo, " acountry-place of the Gregorievs just outside the town, the mistress ofthe house, Princess Sophia, had not yet gone to bed. She had been alonein her bedroom for some time, and was now on her knees before a littleshrine presided over by a great, golden ikon, with its flaring colors, and stiff, Byzantine figures of Mary and the infant Christ. There, before the World-Mother, knelt the loneliest of unhappy women: daughterof an old, impoverished Muscovite house, and wife, by necessity, ofMichael Gregoriev, a man of millions, chief of the Third Section inMoscow: an official after the heart of the Iron Czar, and of Satan, hismaster, too. 

For nearly an hour the Princess had knelt on a heavily rugged floor, hereyes lifted to the face of the Virgin, her lips revealing, in thosewhispers that had become part of her life, the ever-living anguish ofher heart. She was in her thirty-third year, poor creature: had knownnow sixteen years of married life--sixteen years of revelation, ofrepulsion mental and physical, of misery not to be told. One by one herlittle illusions, fancies, hopes, and, with them, all the graces of heryouth, had fallen from her, till there remained but a shadowy, fadedcreature, holding, in the depths of her bruised soul, just one moredesire, one final hope, of which the very possibility was by this timeall but extinguished. 

Yet it was of this hope she was speaking to-night to that distant, shadowy Mary, who, her confessor had told her, can always understand andalways pity. Here, in the chill silence of her lonely rooms, while thewide world without grew stiller and more still under its pale covering, the wife had gathered her last resolution together, and dared a demandof those High Immortals whose contact with humanity had ended so longago. They had hitherto been pitiless enough with her; though this shewould scarcely acknowledge even in her feeble rebellion. But she shouldask them, at last, to make her a tardy restitution. 

Sophia was unaware that her wish was a selfish one. It seemed so naturala thing she asked; and her mind, poor lady, was all upon herself, therebeing no other soul to think for her. That the helpless life she longedfor would be ushered into a dreary world, too dark for bright innocenceto face, never occurred to her. Her outlook had grown strangelyone-sided during the past long years of constantly weakening defence. 

"Mary-Mother--protect me! I have waited very long. I have done all Thywill. I have kept the fasts: have made my confessions and been absolved. I have striven so long for strength to endure--all that has been givenme to endure! I have not avoided any pain, or abuse, or disgrace. I haveborne without complaint all the isolation of _his_ life, till my veryfamily shuns me. Oh, Thy hand has lain heavy upon me, but I have notcomplained! Therefore, in this New Year, I come to Thee, Holy Mother, with my wish. Grant me, I beseech, that which has been given so manytimes to others! Give me at last a companion in my life: one that cannotleave me. Thou, holiest of women, intercede for me! Make me one withThee! Give me, too, a child!"

Once more, and over and over again, did the frail woman make herrequest: so many times, indeed, and at last so fervidly, that herexcitement grew, and tears came. Little by little she drooped towardsthe floor. Her face shone wet in the candle-light; and she clutched atthe little shelf below the ikon, where a handful of flowers stood in asilver vase between the candles. 

The minutes crept by. The few other lights in the big room burned low, flared, flickered, and went out. There was a vast, muffled stillness inthe snow-filled air. The first night of the New Year was nearly dead. Asthe light in her room grew ghostlier, Princess Sophia's voice becamegradually incoherent, dropped to a vague whisper, and finally ceased. She slid gently from her knees to a sitting posture, her head restingagainst the wall, under the little shrine. And then her eyes fell shut. She slept. 

For a quarter of an hour there was no sound in the room. The last candlebefore the ikon at length followed the others, wavered high for aninstant, and then went out. Yet, strangely, the room was not left indarkness. On the contrary, in the corner by the door had appeared asoft, misty radiance which, second by second, grew visibly moreluminous. Far over the snow-fields came the clear chime of bells, ringing the midnight hour. As their echoes died, the Princess, withoutmoving her body, opened her eyes again upon the form of a woman who hademerged from the mist and now stood near at hand, looking down at her. 

Tall she was, and classically robed, this visitor. Her face, shaded bya drapery of dove blue, was as fair as sculptured marble. But there wasa fire of deep compassion in her dark eyes, and her mouth was curvedinto the gentlest smile. The great pity in that wonderful face stirredSophia with a sudden pang of joy; and it was long before her gaze movedfrom those features. But when they did, her lips parted in a faint cry;for she saw that the Mary-Mother was not alone. Her left hand wasclasped by that of a child: a tiny, shadowy shape, sweet-faced andslender-limbed. Looking, Sophia's breath came fast; and leaning forwardinstinctively, she held out her arms. At that gesture, the stranger andher charge came forward a little more, and the holy woman spoke:

"Sophia, I come to answer your prayer, bringing with me the soul of yourchild. "

The Princess bowed to the floor. 

"Your eyes behold a little, lonely spirit, that is to be given into yourcare. Guard it and guide it; for the way of its life stretches far, andis difficult and long. Your paths meet for but a few years: for you areyourself nearing the end of your unhappy journey; and during these lastyears, comfort shall be given you. Look, then, upon the face of yourson. "

Swiftly the little spirit left the protecting shadow of its holy guide, and paused beside Sophia. She would have clasped the shadowy body in hereager arms, but a sense outside herself forbade this, and she could onlygaze searchingly into the gentle, childish face. 

"Thou art mine?--my son?" she whispered, softly. 

The little creature looked up at Mary-Mother and then, at once, returnedto the sad mortal at its side. The little face brightened with a smile, and the lips formed the dear word, "Mother!"

Then, immediately, darkness had fallen. The visitors from afar weregone. Sophia lay upon the bare floor beneath the ikon, fast asleep. 

In a few moments the door from the hall opened hastily, and a woman'svoice whispered in frightened haste:

"My lady! Khazyaceka! His Excellency Prince Michael is coming up-stairs!He is almost here!"

CHAPTER I

THE CZAR'S BALL

After the night of what she came gradually to call the Holy Dream, theyears passed more swiftly, with less of inward tumult, for SophiaIvanovna Gregoriev. It was now the close of the year 1851; and the reignof the Iron Czar was wavering towards its dark end. Meantime the son ofthe chief of the secret section in Moscow was eleven years and threemonths old: a straight-limbed, quiet child, the son of his mother. Andall Sophia's recent life, that life which had entwined itself whollyabout the promised babe, was mingled the inexplicable strangeness of herdream-memory. To her, New Year's night had become a sacred time; and sheloved to keep a vigil through it in her own, lonely way. This year, however, it was to be marked in a different manner. For MichaelGregoriev had planned that, on the first night of 1852, he, and perforcehis wife, should make a final effort to obtain that social recognitionwhich had never been the accompaniment of his political advancement. 

At this time--as, indeed, to-day, there stood, in the south-central partof trans-Moskva Moscow, only two private buildings of any note. One ofthese was the low-spreading palace of the Governor; the other that ofPrince Michael Petrovitch Gregoriev. The first had stood in its gardensfor a century and a half. The other was nearly fifty years older. Thedwelling of the Gregorievs was at some distance from its statelyneighbor, however; for it stood on the southeast corner of the KonnaiaSquare, approachable by carriage only through the Serpoukhovskaia. Itssurroundings were of the humblest sort; for it was a long way south ofthe Merchants' quarter, and so far from the sacred precincts of theKremlin that the voice of Ivan Veliki had melted into an echo ere itreached the Gregoriev gateway. 

It is certain that neither age nor environment made this old place lessgrewsomely interesting: this ancient dwelling of a family whose unsavoryannals were lost in the gloom of Tátar rule. The Gregorievs were closelybound to the gloomy stone pile; and would dwell there, in allprobability, as long as their line continued. Michael, the presentPrince, was loyal to his house. Yet its situation was one of thegreatest of crosses to this man, who had known and cast away many aheavier burden during his career. Remote as he was from the fashionabledistricts, there was neither man nor woman in the city, from theproudest house in the Equerries' quarter to the outskirts of the NovaiaAndronovka, but knew and shuddered, agreeably, at the Gregorievreputation. 

It was not strange, then, that the affair of New Year's night had becomethe sensation of the season. For on this night Prince Gregoriev hadvowed a triumph over the massed society of the Mother City. He intendedto accomplish now what his wedding with a daughter of one of the oldestand most honored families had failed to do: what no use of hisunscrupulous power could force, what all Moscow society, for once bandedunanimously together, had sworn he should never accomplish--enter theirranks, the ranks of the old nobility of the Empire. 

By New Year's morning, however, the numbers were admitting, bitterly, their defeat. Once more Gregoriev was about to achieve the impossible. Eighteen years before, Moscow society had defeated him, superbly. At thetime of his marriage to a daughter of the Blashkovs, the question ofhis admission into the "court circle" had been violently agitated. Butat that time even his prospective father-in-law had not had thehardihood to suggest an informal presentation of this man to hisMajesty. Nay, it was the bride, pale, pretty, sensitive Sophia, who, when it was seen that she had no slightest influence over her dreadhusband, had been, not, perhaps, without a sigh, dropped from theiracquaintance by her former associates: nay, by her very family, all saveone sister, a girl younger than herself. 

For eighteen years, then, the Gregoriev palace had stood in itsisolation, echoing only to the revelry that money can always obtain. Foreighteen years its master, buying what the world had to sell, had beensecretly planning to obtain what was not for sale: had faced, unmoved, an isolation which, to a nature less strong, would have been unbearable. 

Now, at last, he was about to win. His amazing intrigue had succeeded. Its results were for the eyes of all men. For Moscow society had beensuddenly _commanded_ to his house, to a ball, given on New Year's night, in honor of his Imperial Majesty Nicholas I. , who had decided, by hisappearance, to honor the house of his subject and immediate servant. 

 * * * * *

It was eleven o'clock on that night of nights; and the bed and dressingrooms of the Princess Sophia were lighted to suffocation with smokingcandles. Two maids and old Másha, general factotum of her mistress, werebustling importantly from one room to the other, bearing to her, pieceby piece, their mistress's burden of jewels. At her dressing-table, pale, still wearing, as always in public, her mask of emotionlessimpenetrability, sat Sophia. Her neck and shoulders, which, according tothe rigid etiquette of court-dress, were fully exposed, were white, and, considering her extreme slenderness, surprisingly round. A broad collarof sapphires and diamonds clasped above an Oriental necklace of pearls, successfully hid whatever there was to betray the too-visible marks ofthe "certain" age. On her head she bore the oddly becoming kakoshnik, which, in her case, was set with a triple row of superb diamonds. Theface below this gleaming structure, the delicate, weary face, robbed ofits customary frame of smoothly banded yellow hair, looked more sharplypointed than usual, but surprisingly pretty. For there was actually afire--whether of pleasure, expectancy or nervousness--in her gray eyes;and there had come a delicate flush to the usually pallid cheeks. Sophiawas, indeed, living with her dead to-night. Dreams of the old days heldher in a kind of spell. The woman of memories--memories of a briefyouth, a swiftly blighted flowering of life--had for once been forcedback to a forgotten theme. And she found, recalling the days of herfirst balls, that the customary bitterness of contrast had suddenlydisappeared. There was much that was new in this present situation: shewas alive to sensations unfelt for years. There stirred in her heartwhat she was only to define after it had gone again: that which for mostpeople forms the great staff of the inner life: on which she had been solong unaccustomed to lean--the great Phoenix, Hope. 

At length they had fastened the last pin in her veil, the last hook inthe heavy gown of cloth of silver. The maids stood off from her alittle, whispering. But she herself remained motionless, gazing absentlyinto her quaintly framed old mirror, lost in one of those reveries thather servants had learned not to disturb. The pause had lasted some fiveminutes when the door opening into the outer hall opened, vigorously, and the Princess started suddenly up, her face changing pathetically, alook of dread painfully contracting her features. 

As their mistress rose, the three women shrank instinctively backward. To one understanding it, the act was pathetically familiar. An instantlater, however, the Princess cried out, "Caroline! It is you, then?" andso turned deathly white and reeled a little till old Másha came to hersupport. 

"Sophie! You are not ill--_to-night_!" The new-comer, who had spokenin French, halted near the door, an expression of dismay on her face. 

Madame Gregoriev, however, laughed faintly, and the color began to creepback into her cheeks. As old Másha left her to hobble briskly out of theroom, she continued, "No, no! I am perfectly well. It was only thatyou--startled me a little. I--I thought it was--Michael Petrovitch. "

Once more the face of the other changed, but she said nothing as shecame slowly forward, examining her companion the while with a criticaleye. She was the Countess Dravikine, Sophia's younger sister, who, ayear or two after Sophia's misalliance, had herself married remarkablywell: a young diplomat of the capital, already high in the graces of theofficial world, and destined to rise steadily, through the clevermanagement of his wife. The Countess Dravikine fitted her adopted worldextremely well. She was a woman whose one tender sentiment was thatwhich she held for the sister of her youth. Otherwise she had, notentirely without justice, been called heartless. She was, in any case, admirably adapted for the life she had chosen. And strife social andpolitical, as well as every move in the great game of state intrigue, were as the breath of life to her. She had not come through the firesunsinged. There had been, nay, still were, whispers about her in herworld. But they were whispers such as heightened rather than tarnishedthe brilliance of her reputation. For, whether wrongly or not, her namehad more than once been linked with that of the Iron Ruler himself. This may or may not have been the reason for her presence to-night inMoscow, whither she had journeyed to stand beside her sister at theanticipated triumph. But whatever her motive, no one could deny that theevening would gain by her presence. Here, beside her glittering sister, she was superb, in her magnificently poised maturity, the voluminousgauzes of her Paris gown floating like clouds about her: the numberlessopals in her hair and at her breast only continuing the delicatecoloring of the green-and-white costume that was as unusual as it wasbecoming to her _chic_ ugliness of feature. But to-night, for perhapsthe first time in her life, Caroline Dravikine was more interested inthe costume of another than in her own. She was determined that hersister's appearance should be even more perfect than hers. And to thisend she went over the other's toilet detail by detail, only ending thesilent scrutiny as Másha reappeared with a slender glass of wine for hermistress. 

"Eh bien, Sophie, --yes! drink the wine. If you will not rouge you mustkeep what color you have!--the sapphires are not in the least too heavy. They have done you up very well. Sonya!" turning to one of the maids, "catch up that curl over the right ear of the Princess. It spoils theeffect of severity that suits your face so well. So. Et maintenon, machère, renvoyez vos femmes de chambre. Je veux causer avec vous enparticulier. "

Sophia complied with the request: the maids, with the simple familiarityof the Russian serf, taking their dismissal reluctantly. But MadameDravikine held them all in awe, and before her they did not dare theprotest that their Princess might have listened to. When the sisterswere alone, they crossed the room together and seated themselves on agreat sofa upholstered in a beautifully faded old brocade, made beforethe birth of the great Catharine. And while Caroline, mindful of herfresh gauzes, sat upright, like a bird poised for flight, her sister layback, wearily, crushing the veil of her headdress against a heap ofpillows. 

There was a moment's pause; then the Countess began, resolutely: "HasMichael Petrovitch seen you yet?"

"Oh no! He has not come up-stairs. I hope that he will not, Katrelka!He--he would not be satisfied, you know. "

"Sophie! Sophie! sometimes I cannot wonder that the man is a terror inyour life! Satisfied with you! Ciel! If Alexis Vassilyitch expresseddissatisfaction with a toilet of mine, I should not speak to him for aweek. No! I should get him into such difficulties with the ministry thathe would come to me on his knees in three days! I tell you again, Sophie, that you must assert yourself! Tell me--"

"Stop, Kasha, stop! I am too tired for all this just now. Say what youwill to-morrow. You know the thing is a great strain. Tell me only this:Are you quite sure that his Majesty will come? Do you believe itpossible that at last everything is to be right--that we are to haveMoscow--our old Moscow--here again?"

Having with some little self-control waved aside the unusual rebuff ofSophia's first words, Madame Dravikine listened to the last with asmile, a trifle self-conscious; and in spite of her sister's look--astare that suggested coldness, the expression remained with her as sheanswered: "Yes, at last you are safe, dear. You see--I am here fromPetersburg; though it has meant leaving Nathalie with her nurses, andAlexis Vassilyitch to spend every night at the yacht-club at baccarat. Besides, Moscow always bores his Majesty; and even the Czarevitch isn'twith him this time, you know. "

"Caroline, I wish--" Madame Gregoriev's hesitating voice trailed intosilence. She knew that it was scarcely the hour for remonstrance ofthat kind. After a moment she began again, "Do you remember how manyyears it is since we were all at home together, in the Nijny Kislovsky?I should hardly be able to name over the old families now. All theleaders of our day--Madame Apúkhtin, Princess Osínin, theDowager-Countess Parakoff--they are all dead. It is the wife of theyounger Smirnoff--Alexander married a dancer who cannot be received--whokeeps up the name. Eugen married Olga Lodoroff. She was a child when Iwas married. She wouldn't remember me at all now. But we have had notone excuse. They are all to come. Kasha, I am happy to-night! Think--"

"Of course, Sophie, they are coming. One would think you a parvenue, absolutely, to hear you!" broke in Caroline, sharply, still smarting alittle at her reading of that unfinished sentence. 

Sophia colored at her sister's appellation, but had no time forrejoinder; for at this moment an inner door was pushed gently open and aboy entered. 

Sophia rose, hastily. "Ivan! You were asleep two hours ago!"

"But I woke up. And Másha said you were so splendid with the diamondsall on, that I came to see. " He looked up at his mother, his big, blackeyes shining with interest as he inspected her unusual array. His aunt, sharper-eyed than her sister, perceived that, under his eider-downwrapper, the boy wore no night-flannel, but a more or less complete suitof day-clothes. She said nothing, however, for, though she had no lovefor children, Ivan was quiet enough to have won her liking. 

"Eh bien, mon fils, tu m'as vu. Allez vous en! Retournez immédiatementau lit. Tu vas prendre un rhume! Allez! Vite!" Laughing, she kissed theboy--nor had far to stoop to reach his lips. Then, with a gentle hand, she led him back to the door. The boy moved reluctantly, and, ere heleft the room, caught his mother round the neck and whispered in her eara question which was answered by a determined shake of the head. 

When he had gone, the Princess stood for an instant looking after him, all her heart in her unconscious eyes. Then, her eyes shining with asoftened light, she turned again to her sister, saying, with a smile:

"Come, Katrelka, let us go down. The opera must be over by this time;and I must see the rooms before the first arrival. "

"Just one moment more, then, Moussia. " Madame Dravikine rose, crossedthe room, and laid her hand caressingly on the other's arm. "If MichaelPetrovitch should be out of temper when we meet him, do not bedisturbed. Do not, for the sake of our family, Sophie, betray yourselfby--by your face--to-night. Remember, if the scene should growunbearable I can always--"

"Yes, yes, Kasha. Thank you. But let us not speak of it further--justnow. "

A moment's silence. Then suddenly, by a common impulse, the two womenthrew themselves into each other's arms and kissed fervently. When theyhad separated again, the eyes of the Countess were no less suspiciouslywet than those of her sister, the wife of Michael Gregoriev. 

It was a pity that functions of formal magnificence were affairs of suchrarity in the Gregoriev palace; for no private dwelling in Russia wasbetter adapted to the purpose. The grand entrance opened into a hall ofroyal dimensions, at the back of which rose a massive staircase, which, ascending to a broad marble landing, separated there into two parts, oneof which wound upward to the right, the other to the left, to the upperfloor. Upon this landing, facing the hall below, stood the figure of aDiana carved from Carrara marble, its exquisite Greek curves wreathedto-night in smilax and white roses, brought up from the southern estatesof the Prince. 

As the sisters descended the stairs together, each critically surveyingthe decorations of the rooms below, Prince Michael himself appeared fromthe direction of the great dining-room, accompanied by his major-domo, towhom he was giving some final orders concerning the reception of hisImperial Majesty. 

A remarkable man was Michael Petrovitch, Prince Gregoriev; nominally achief of the Third Section under Ryeléff; actually head of the secretpolice of the whole Moscow district; confidential adviser of the royalGovernor-General; and privately and intimately known to the Czar, whohad long been aware that he had at least one man in his Empire who wouldbalk at no order that should be given him. 

In Prince Michael, as so seldom happens, the story of the mind wasplainly written upon the body. Six feet three inches he stood in hisstockings--two inches more in his regular dress; his head large inproportion, and finely shaped; eyes black, glittering, and unfaceable;mustache jet-black and upstanding, as if made of wire, from the set, ugly mouth, below which jutted a square, blue-shaven chin. And theappearance thus presented was not to be overshadowed, in any feature, bythe magnificence of the uniform he wore to-night. Tunic and trouserswere of heavy white cloth, the first garment so long, and so heavilyembroidered in gold, that his body seemed cased in a glittering sheathdown to where the edge of the coat met the top of the boots of softlywrinkling black, that cased his legs almost to the thigh. On his breastwere ranged half a dozen orders; conspicuous among them that of St. George, for gallant conduct on the field of action, won years before inthe streets of thrice-sacked Warsaw. 

As the two women halted, Gregoriev finished his orders; and, turningfrom the cringing serf, stood staring at his wife and her sister. MadameDravikine was smiling brightly; but Sophia's face was set, her cheeksflaming, her burning eyes unwontedly hard. 

"So! Madame, there is a hair-pin caught in the flounce below your rightankle. "

Involuntarily the Princess quivered, stooped, and extricated the finewire pin which even Caroline had not noted. Then she straightened uphastily, sought to meet her husband's sneer with something likeresolution, faltered before him, and moved slowly away towards thereception-rooms. The Countess, however, turned to her brother-in-law, and covered her sister's retreat. Certainly Prince Michael gave her hisattention; and his manner with women of station was unresentable. Nevertheless, the covert amusement in his voice and in the eyes thatlooked after his wife, set even Caroline's experienced teeth on edge. She talked with him on the prospects of the evening; and it was a themeso interesting to both of them that neither perceived the little figure, dressed in black velvet, that stole quietly down from the second floorand concealed himself on the landing behind the floral drapery thatspread, star-fashion, from the statue of the goddess. An hour or twobefore Ivan, filled with a vague excitement, had bribed his old nurse todress him in his best, and, having seen his mother and his aunt in theircourt-dress, he had been seized with the desire for more. After waitingin his room as long as he could, the boy had stolen down the staircaseto a point whence he could see the progress of that great ball whichwas, in some mysterious way, to change the fortunes of his father'shouse, and, with them, the long loneliness of his own, dreamy days. 

So he crouched there through the hours, well concealed, a figureunconsciously pathetic, his great, sad eyes--eyes begotten by hismother, and with all her own woe in their liquid depths--glowingbrightly in the white, wistful, childish face; the suggestion of a smileon his straight, delicately chiselled mouth. He had been in his placebarely ten minutes when the great doors opened to the first guests; and, during the hour that followed, they were scarcely shut. The opera wasover. Fashionable Moscow, accustomed to live at night, swathed itself infurs, and, grumbling at the unwonted distance, had spun across the city, in open sleighs, to the distant Gregoriev palace. 

Prince Michael, with his wife and his sister-in-law beside him, stood atthe entrance to the gold drawing-room, welcoming the men and women whowere announced in rapid succession: men and women whose names setSophia's heart beating with memory. There were few, indeed, that anymajor-domo in Petersburg would not have shouted in his best voice. Forall of them were members of the great Russian world: Apúkhtin andMirski, Chipraznik, Smirnoff and the omnipresent Nikitenko--names thathad been the last to fade into, the first to reappear from, the balefulnight of Tátar rule. Not one of them all but had once known SophiaBlashkov intimately: none but greeted Madame Dravikine as a familiaracquaintance of to-day. But, for the first time since his wedding-day, Michael Gregoriev felt himself slighted for that woman he had so longdespised. One and all, women and men alike, they slid by him as rapidlyas decency would permit, nor cared to notice him again, though, from farcorners and discreet retreating-places, they bestowed on him glancesthat ran the gamut from curiosity to open horror. Not so did Sophiafare. There was for her at least one hour when the immediate past wasblotted out, and her heart warmed and thrilled again as it had in thatlong-past, joyous winter of her presentation. 

By half an hour past midnight the rooms were crowded and there hadsettled over the company a hush: that peculiar stillness of expectancythat is destruction to the nerves of a host. In this special pause, however, lay something beyond the ordinary: a discomfort, a palpableuneasiness, that sheathed a subtle threat. Sophia, with her woman'sinstinct, was no quicker to perceive it than her husband. They, withCountess Caroline and every other woman in the rooms, put the sameinterpretation upon that significant lull. It spoke thus: "It is late, and he whom we were commanded to meet is not here. His ImperialMajesty's name forced us to this house. Now he has not come. Is thething a trick? Michael Petrovitch Gregoriev, have you been capable of_this_? Dared you dream that such folly of deceit could really helpyou?"

Such was the unmistakable sentiment in the air when, at a quarter beforeone, the sisters met in a corner of the dining-room, and there passedbetween them a white-faced look. Then Madame Dravikine whispered:

"Sophie, what does it mean? _Did_ Nicholas promise?"

The question was a mistake. Princess Gregoriev's lips went white, andshe seemed to speak with difficulty. "Caroline! Then _you_ were notassured by him? You as well as Michael have deceived me?"

Madame Dravikine flushed scarlet. "I have never discussed your affairswith his Majesty, " she returned, haughtily. 

Sophia made no reply. Her face, if possible, grew a little more livid, her eyes a trifle more piteous. 

Caroline, in spite of her resentment, was touched with pity and withfear; so that, presently, she burst out, impulsively: "Then you are_ruined_, Sophie! Absolutely ruined!"

Suddenly, Princess Sophia's lips curled into a bitter smile. "I havebeen ruined, as you call it, for eighteen years. This--this fiascocannot make it any worse!" And, before that expressionless tone, MadameDravikine was still. 

A moment or two after this encounter, however, there came a sudden stir. Beyond the dining-room, in the central hall, was a visible flutter ofexcitement, and whispers sped rapidly through the rooms. 

"He has really come!"

"The Czar is here!"

"After all, his Majesty has arrived. "

"Where is he, then?"

"In his dressing-room. The royal sleigh is at the gate. "

"Ah! Then we must remain!"

During the first seconds of the excitement, the Prince and PrincessGregoriev came together near the door of the specially preparedantechamber where his Majesty was to have his furs removed. Sophia'scheeks were flushed, her eyes burning again; but the face of MichaelPetrovitch had become once more impenetrable. There were three minutesof the strained attention. Then, from the door of the antechamber, appeared a stately man, clad in a magnificent uniform, his breastcovered with medals and crosses. When they were still many feet apart, alook passed between him and Prince Michael; and, in that look, a new, undying enmity was born in Gregoriev's fierce soul. For the guest fromthe Kremlin was _not_ the Czar, but the Czar's most detested envoy: thenotorious Count Alderberg, Minister of the Imperial Household. And hiswords to the host and hostess began with the infuriating, formal: "Iregret--"

Even through that moment of greeting, Princess Sophia scarcelyunderstood the full significance of this presence. Surely, if the Czarhad sent a proxy, it meant, at least, recognition. But as the Countcarried his cynical smile and gorgeous personality away in thedirection of the dining-room, and the poor lady turned to her husband, she was stricken dumb at sight of the blind fury in his face. It was alook that she had known before--too well. Yet never, perhaps, had such aconcentrated mixture of defeat, rage, and rebellion glared from thoseeyes or straightened that heavy mouth. Now, indeed, she knew that theywere undone. 

"Alderberg! Alderberg! By God and the devil, had I dreamed--" Thelow-muttered words trailed off and were bitten into silence, while, by afierce contortion of the muscles, Michael straightened his face into asemblance of calm. But the hands hanging at his sides were clinched tillthe nails pierced his palms, and the veins started out, knotted andpurple, from his flesh. 

For some moments the Princess stood irresolute, terrified lest herguests should witness some part of this outbreak. Madame Dravikine wasfirst to emerge from the throng; and she came towards them, dismaywritten in her face. She sent one glance at Michael; and then, bitingher lip, took her sister's hand in a gentle clasp. 

"Ah! You, too, Katrelka!" whispered Sophia. "You, too, think it so bad?"

Caroline shook her head sadly. "We are helpless, Sophie. A fit ofNicholas' laziness has lost the world to you. Look!"

There was no time for response; for, at this moment, the Prince andPrincess Mirski came up with chill good-nights that were passivelyaccepted. They were immediately followed by the Osínin, who barelylooked towards Michael, but had the grace to murmur some excuse to hiswife. On their heels hastened the Apúkhtin, who played the few secondsof farce with angry hauteur. Then, injury to insult, Alderberg himselfapproached, having been in the rooms a bare five minutes. And, as hedisappeared into the royal alcove, the throng in the rooms began to flythe house as from a spot plague-smitten. 

At the instant of Alderberg's appearance in the hall, word of thedefection of the Czar had swept like wildfire through the rooms. TheMinister of the Imperial Household was nearly as unpopular among thecourt circle of Moscow as he was among the peasant class; and nothingcould have been more unfortunate than the choice of him as the proxy ofhis Majesty. Within five minutes, whispers were everywhere. The drawing, dining, and dressing rooms were full of the rippling hiss of talk whichin every case preceded either frowns or angry laughter. Ivan, from hishiding-place on the stairway, caught many phrases the significance ofwhich he could not fathom; but which filled him with prescience of evil. His troubled eyes sought the face of his mother in the hall below; andhe found there what he had feared. From his vantage-point he had a clearview of the quickening rush of departure. Crowds were pouring up-stairsto re-don their furs; though many of these people had not yet recoveredfrom the chill of their long drive from the Grand Theatre. Soon thegreat staircase was so crowded that many who were still below made noeffort to ascend, deputing the bringing of their wraps to friends whohad forced an upward passage. For so bitter was the night that few hadpursued the usual custom of leaving their sables outside, on the arms ofpatient footmen. 

Ivan watched the good-nights to his father and mother; and noted alsothe lack of them. He beheld the drooping, weary figure of the Princess, in her blaze of gems, forcing piteous smiles of farewell. And he wasglad that there were so many who, under cover of the throng, evaded theordeal of the good-night, and slipped away from the brilliant rooms asfrom a dwelling haunted with evil. 

There was but one consolation for this misery--it was very brief. Thecrowd that had taken a long hour to assemble, dispersed and melted awayinto the darkness of the city within the space of fifteen minutes. Therehad, indeed, been some who had arrived after his Excellency the Count. These, perceiving the crowd out-streaming, divined calamity, and, without so much as descending from their sleighs, turned about anddeparted as they had come. 

By half-past one o'clock three figures stood alone in the great hall;while on the staircase, beside the motionless Diana, crouched a lonely, frightened child, who still stared, as if with enchanted eyes, at hismother's white, despairing face. Princess Sophia stood motionless, herhead bent, her hands clasped tightly before her, persistently avoidingher husband's eyes. Caroline, with a half-protective air, was betweenher sister and her brother-in-law. Michael, his face as colorless asthat of the statue, his eyes alight with the fire in his brain, staredstraight before him, into some bitter world of his own. About them wasthe unbearable silence which Madame Dravikine, who alone wasunaccustomed to it, finally broke in desperation:

"Come, Sophie! Come to bed. You are too tired to stay down here. You'llbe ill. "

But, at the moment, Sophia had, in her heart, the thought of anotherthan herself. At sight of some unwonted suggestion in his face of a painwith which she had been long familiar, there had entered into her hearta sudden pity for the man she so feared. Imbued with a momentarycourage, she advanced to her husband and took his hand. "Michael, " shemurmured, "I--am sorry. "

The man started in amazement, and then drew away from her, at the sametime turning upon her his burning eyes. "_Sorry!_ Good God! Then get toyour ikons and pray. For me--there's no sorrow for me. Nicholas hasplayed his game. Now mine begins. Sorrow for him, if you like. For, bythe help of Satan, he and Moscow shall know me yet!"

The low-spoken words ended with a snarl of inarticulate anger. And themoment they were uttered, he turned brusquely, and, without another wordor look, disappeared in the direction of his offices, where, as his wifeknew, he would probably work till far into the next day. 

The two women watched him go. Then, after a pause, they found themselvesclinging to each other, and in this fashion began the ascent of thestairs. Both of them were weeping: not loudly; rather as the reactionfrom the strain of the past hour. As they reached the landing, they werejoined by another. Ivan came openly from his hiding-place, and barredtheir path, guilt-laden. But there was to be no rebuke to-night for hisdisobedience. On the contrary, his mother took him into her arms andclasped him close, as if his presence brought comfort for much immediatepain. And the boy, feeling the hot tears from her eyes fall upon hisface, laid his arms about her neck, and yielded himself to a grief and aterror that he understood vaguely, but could not as yet define. 

CHAPTER II

MICHAEL

Up to the time of Prince Gregoriev's marriage, that peculiar man hadused his huge dwelling as a gypsy uses a moor: he had wandered about, living for three months in the west wing, three more in the east, againfor six high up in the central portion of the great building, takingwith him the rather simple impedimenta of his state, and arranging themas he chose. The presence of Sophia had, however, made at least onechange in his existence. Little either of time or attention as he gaveher, Michael was driven, by mere consciousness of her proximity, to fixupon some certain suite of rooms for the pursuit of his personal laborsand his peculiar recreations. And, after the first irritation ofnecessity had worn away, he found the arrangement to possess unforeseenadvantages. Unlike his class, he was a man of simple, even austerehabits in his working hours. Luxury at such times meant annoyance tohim; and only the barest necessities of furniture and attire wereadmitted to his periods of solitary labor. Upon his establishment in hisnow permanently arranged suite in the eastern wing of the palace, hefound that certain papers and written references--kept hitherto underlock and key, and guarded from every eye--could at last find a permanentplace in that work-room which no one was permitted to enter, even forpurposes of cleaning. For twenty-eight years, now, this had formed oneof his six rooms, of which two on the second floor were connected withthose below by a private staircase. By degrees, his habits had become asfixed at those of a woman. His many vices were as strong, as severe, ashis few virtues; and more than one man had remarked that, so far as wasknown, there was not a single balancing weakness in the nature of thisiron man. 

At two o'clock on the morning after the ball, Michael had seatedhimself at the great table in his sanctum, and prepared for work. He had no idea of bed; for sleep in his present state, his brainafire with the fury of unwonted defeat, would have been impossible. But he could still pin his thoughts down to the composition of twoor three state documents--reports requiring a liberal use ofimagination--before allowing himself the luxury of setting aboutarranging his plan of retaliation: retaliation upon the great Czar, his master. Thus it was that dawn, the late, wintry dawn, risingseven hours later, fell upon his dishevelled figure stretched outin a chair beside the paper-piled table, his heavy brows drawn downin deep thought, his lungs filled with deep draughts of smoke drawnfrom the pipe between his teeth. 

The passage which led down to this dread room of his, opened also intothe office in which he conducted business with his colleagues, and whichwas decorated and furnished with Oriental magnificence. The inner room, of which only Piotr, his body-servant, had ever had so much as aglimpse--the room that had sheltered this master of men and of evil atthe ebb and the flood of his power--was bare of ornament, and held notone unnecessary article. The two windows were uncurtained; but outsidethe customary double panes, the cracks of which were filled with poundedwool, stretched a significant iron net-work which was embedded far inthe stones at the window-edges. Within, the four walls were covered withstaring, yellow plaster; only one side of it, that opposite theworking-chair, being partly covered--and that only by two big maps: oneof the Russian Empire, with its dependencies; the other covered with amass of line-tracery and unreadable jottings, written in what wasevidently a cipher. The key to this was hidden in the brain of the manwho had composed it. 

Michael himself had dubbed this square of parchment a map: his map ofmen. And it contained mention of some members in almost every greatfamily in the Empire. Nicholas himself was there, side by side with hisvalet--a man, indeed, of vast importance in that ministerial world towhich a Gregoriev still aspired. 

Finally, beside these things, high up in a corner of the east wall, wasthe inevitable, dingy little daub meant for the blessed and blessingVirgin: a superstitious but universal custom which even Michaelsubmitted to, and which represented, perhaps, his single remaining shredof religion. For the rest, a huge table, a single chair, and twobookcases filled with a small, but remarkably well-chosen collection ofreference-books, finished the characteristic arrangement of the room. 

Here, this morning, the gray light of a winter dawn mingled with thedull flare of the hanging-lamp increasing the ghastliness of hisappearance, sat Michael Gregoriev, in the stale bitterness of anight-old rage and mortification. On the floor, in an unceremoniousheap, lay his heavily embroidered coat, with its medals still upon it. In its stead the Prince had wrapped himself in a worn robe of oldbrocade, fur-lined. Heavy felt slippers shod his feet. His hair wastumbled over his head in a leonine mass. His features were gray; but hiseyes still glowed above the dark, purplish circles that shadowed hischeeks. His documents were finished. He had sat for two hours and morein this present brown study; and, tested as his endurance had been, hisconcentration was still absolute. On the table, near at hand, stood aflask of vodka, nearly empty, and a jar of water scarcely touched. 

Nevertheless, the Prince of the lonely house was not drunk: was not evenmisty-headed. At a quarter after eight there came a knock at the door, and his hoarse, "Enter!" was as immediate as was the return to hisreverie. Nor did he lift his eyes as Piotr entered softly, arranged thesteaming samovar at his master's elbow, placed bread, fresh butter, anda dish of lentils beside it, and then departed as noiselessly as he hadcome. 

For five minutes the man beside the table did not stir. Then he rose, still preoccupied, crossed the room to his cipher map, and ran hisfinger down a certain line of hieroglyphics till he found what hesought, and paused to read one passage carefully, twice. Then, when hisface had straightened till his lips actually stretched themselves intothe semblance of a sardonic smile, he dropped the subject of histhoughts, returned to the table, and made himself some tea. Glass afterglass of this he drank, steaming hot. But no solid food passed his lips;and in twenty minutes he reseated himself and set about the writing oftwo letters, on the envelope of each of which he placed, in the lowercorner, a peculiar mark--a sign of the Third Section, known to a fewmen, and signifying privacy and importance. 

These letters were the result of his recent cogitation; and bothconcerned the affair of the previous night. He had realized hissituation to the full; and he knew that it must be faced. His sensationswere unfamiliar, however; for it was many years since he had had toacknowledge a defeat so absolute and so grave. Never before, however, had he pitted himself against a force that strong men will not takeseriously because it is never to be logically reckoned with. Nevertheless, that force must, sooner or later, be acknowledged by everyhuman being. Michael Gregoriev especially should have taken it intoconsideration long before; for it was many years since he began hispreparations for what last night was to have brought him: a place in thelast unconquered world of power. His preparation, however, had led himonly through ways peopled by men: and for men and their deeds he wasmore than a match. Their caprices, their follies, their faithlessness, their treachery even, he had learned long since to calculate and to copewith. Women, also, he had known: many women; experienced, innocent, negative, or wicked. And those who had ventured upon his ground, he hadnot failed to conquer. It was in the knowledge of these experiences thathe had stood; by its light preparing a _coup_ that was to carry the lastfortress of that upper world which still held out against him: thatpeculiar body of women and men called "society. "

Years before, with this same purpose in his mind, he had married adaughter of this class, whose only dower was her birth, and whose onlycovetable possession her place among her kind. And this effort hadfailed, entirely. Sophia Blashkov, a quiet, gentle, blue-blooded, littledébutante, had found herself utterly unequal to the task either offorcing a place in those glittering, scornful ranks for herblack-blooded, much-condemned husband, or of keeping her own, now thatshe bore his name. True, her marriage had, probably, made possible heryounger sister's exceptional and unhoped-for match. But Michael himselffelt that he had sadly bungled a most important affair. Perceiving hiswife's uselessness for his purpose, all the little admiration he hadever had for the fragile girl changed speedily into an angry despite. For the moment, he put her and his social ambitions away together, andturned back to that world of official intrigue and promotion which hadactually occupied him from that distant time until within the last fewweeks. The old defeat had long since been buried under a heap of newlygained official honors. But of these, alas! he had now had his fill. Forthe first time he was tasting to the full a measure of bitterness asrank as any the world has to offer. For there is something in thedeliberate rejection by one's kind: a mortification, a sickening senseof helplessness, of rage, of revolt, that belongs to this experiencealone. It is a kind of suffering in which women frequently becomeconnoisseurs. But its taste is none the less nauseous to the man on whomFate forces it. 

Michael Gregoriev, then, a furious man of men, was to-day enduring thatwhich has turned many a woman soul-sick and weary of existence. All theamazement of unforeseen repulse: the agonized acceptance of an unjustsuperiority, a scorn, a pitiless disdain; the totally capricious settingof one's self apart from one's fellows as something too despicable forconsideration; above all, one's utter powerlessness against thisarbitrary judgment--all these things he felt, and every one of them cuthim to the quick. For Michael Gregoriev's egotism had grown with everyyear. 

In his black hour he did not fail to indulge in the usual, uselessrevilement of the superior class: an act as natural as it is ridiculous. Was that society that he had sought out and thought to grasp so pure, sofree from corruption, so spotlessly fair, that his, Prince Gregoriev'speccadilloes must needs bar him from its gatherings? Certainly thisreputation of his was one thing that had kept the door he knocked onclosed. But there were other reasons--innumerable ones, in fact; some ofthem adequate, others entirely inconsistent, that Princess Mirski orMadame Apúkhtin might have named. Yet, in the final summing-up, therewould probably have been a traditional indefiniteness about thewherefore of the Gregoriev ostracism. It was simply understood, instinctively, throughout Moscow, that no person of that name wasknowable. And this fact, _mirabile dictu_, had, after long cogitation, been at last borne in upon Michael--man as he was. 

Prince Gregoriev, though he was generally looked upon as a parvenu, hadnot, like most of that type, been born in the gutter. On the contrary, there was behind him a long line of recluses, eccentrics, hermitsalmost, bearing the strongest resemblance to one another by reason oftheir oddities. One special trait, stronger than any other, served tobind them all together, father and son, through generations. This wastheir constant and unconquerable sense of personal isolation: ofloneliness. Crowds of friends and sycophants might surround theGregoriev. He was none the less bitterly alone. It was, perhaps, amorbid perception of individuality, of the inevitable isolation of everysoul. But whatever its cause, this sense, in more than one of the race, had developed into extreme stages of melancholia. 

The palace in Konnaia Square had been founded in the year 1679, by thethird of the line, Alexis Gregorievitch, who had purposely placed thedwelling of his race in this far corner of the city, out of the possiblerange of decent dwellings. And none of the succession of Peters andMikhails that followed, ever thought to reproach this act of theirancestor. The details of the life of one of these men would havesufficed for all, until the breaking of the direct line. But the lastPrince had died childless; and the estate descended by entail toMichael, eldest son of the dead Prince's dead brother. And though in thepresent Gregoriev the instincts of his race survived, they had been in alarge measure altered and redirected. For when, at the age of twenty, Michael had come into his inheritance, he had, in the first hour of hisnew estate, set himself a certain goal, at the same time turning aniron will and dire traits towards its attainment. Russia was then justentering upon the rule of the Iron Czar. Iron men, therefore, were soonin demand, to replace the more vacillating officials who had served thefirst Alexander. Prince Gregoriev came forward at once with the requestfor a position. And immediately he became involved in that species ofunderhand, almost underground, business (necessary to most governmentsand to all absolute monarchies) which reached its extreme depth in thetyranny that ruled Russia during the next thirty years. 

It did not take many months for Nicholas to perceive that there lived inMoscow a supreme performer of questionable transactions. Upon test, theman showed himself to be all the Czar had thought--and more. He was aman without a conscience. And the official world rejoiced, and put muchwork upon him: so much, that lo! a Gregoriev soon became necessary tothe governmental world. And Michael had worked to more purposes thanone. His great master had no fault to find with his performance of duty. Thus it was not until too late that more than one of the ministersdiscovered the fact that it may be better to have certain things bungledthan to have them carried through by a man so clever that he can putknowledge amassed by the way to double--sometimes triple, uses. This waswhat Gregoriev could, and did, do. He was, _par excellence_, a man ofhis time: in many ways even in advance of it. And he had by no meansbegun to approach his goal before all the men with whom he came in dailycontact, and many of those considerably above him, had come to stand interrible fear of his accurate and tabulated knowledge of things they hadbelieved to be unsuspected by any human being beyond themselves. 

But there was one man in the Empire who, as yet, remained in ignoranceof this trait of his official: who had never felt the faintest scratchbeneath the velvet of his favorite cat's-paw. Thus it was that Michael'smomentary defeat had come about. Czar Nicholas crossed him openly; putupon him an affront unbearable; lowered him in the eyes of three hundredpuny men and women over whom he had no power for revenge. It was, then, as a result of this, that treason had begun to surge through the mind ofa brilliantly wicked man. And had he been able to read certain thoughtspassing through his subject's head, it is possible that the Iron Onemight have felt a certain uneasiness of mind at possibilities of thefuture; and a rather poignant regret at his negligence of the eveningbefore. 

 * * * * *

Two hours had gone by since Piotr had carried his master's first meal tothat master's work-room. Michael had finished his letters. His firstanger was gone and his plan of "payment" already under way. With hismind thus relieved, then, he suddenly began to feel the fatigue ofthirty hours of sleeplessness. With a comforting sense of relaxation, heascended to his bedroom, partly undressed himself, lay down on the bed, and within five minutes had fallen into a sound sleep. 

And it was two hours later and Ivan Veliki had rung the hour of eleven, when the silence of the room was broken by the entrance of Piotr, who, at sight of his master asleep at this unwonted hour, halted in surpriseand confusion. It took him ten minutes to nerve himself to the waking ofthe Prince. But it was only ten more before Michael, who had sworn athis valet steadily, meantime, for the delay, entered his public office, fully dressed, to greet General Ryúmin, a member of the Imperial staff, just now sent as an envoy from the Kremlin. Michael, who chose to greethim with all the courtesy he could command, hurried forward, his handsout-stretched, and gave the greetings of the day. 

"So! I roused you from sleep, Prince? However, I come direct from theKremlin; and his Majesty commands an audience of you at half-past noon. He is here ex-officio, of course, with only Alderberg, Zelanoi, andourselves, on the matter of the forestry ukase. But about you--there'sanother matter he wants you for: the petition for the families ofconvict-exiles to follow them to Siberia. The Council has rejected ittwice; but Benckendorf is still agitating the question. His Majestystill seems to object, strongly. You, too, I suppose?"

"If the wife or the daughter be pretty--of course, " returned Gregoriev, lightly. And Ryúmin, seeing that he was not to be drawn, hastily forceda laugh. 

They passed thence into a discussion of local affairs in which they hadrecently acted as allies when Ryumin had been Lieutenant-Governor of theMoscow province. No undercurrent of enmity marred their intercourse. Gregoriev was certainly an adept at applying or loosening his screws. His guest had felt them sharply once or twice before to-day. He knewGregoriev's power; and Michael asked no more. He had soon made theGeneral entirely at his ease, and the half-hour passed most agreeably. At last, however, Ryúmin rose, tacitly to remind his host of theImperial audience. They had now, indeed, by driving as fast as possible, barely time to reach the Kremlin. Gregoriev, nevertheless, paid noattention to the other's movement. 

"Come, Boris Vassilyitch, one more cigar! We may as well settle now thedetails of this Pahlen affair. You wish a conviction in any case, Iunderstand?"

"My dear Prince, it can wait. His Majesty's wishes are more importantthan mine, you know. "

Gregoriev leaned back in his chair and took three leisurely puffs beforehe observed, lazily: "I don't agree with you. However, I must not keepyou if you have some other appointment. I shall hardly start for theKremlin before one. 

"But--but my dear Gregoriev! The Czar! Your audience!--You see youforget, my good fellow!"

"I forget nothing whatever, General: not even promises that are notkept. "

Ryúmin stared, open-mouthed, as Gregoriev's gloomy eyes met his. Then, with a thrill of wonder, he understood that the man before him had thesuperb audacity thus openly to rebuke his Emperor. 

Certainly Gregoriev's suggestion was no empty threat. Nicholas Romanoffactually waited something more than an hour for the arrival of theMoscow police official. When at last Prince Gregoriev was ushered intothe royal presence, the voice of the master of ceremonies shook as heannounced the name; and, while he closed the door that shut this madmanfrom his sight, he longed and yet dreaded to hear his Majesty's firstwords. Should he--had he time to--rush forth and spread abroad the newsof Gregoriev's fall, before the broken man should issue from thatominously quiet room? Fortunately for himself, the master of ceremonieswas hardly of an adventurous disposition. He cogitated the matter tillhe felt it too late to perform the errand and get back in time to seeGregoriev's expression as he emerged from the Presence. Nevertheless, minute after minute went by, till an hour had passed: time for acomprehensive reproof and dismissal, truly! But the feeble-minded onewas prepared for anything by the time the miracle happened. It was threeo'clock before he beheld, issuing from the audience-chamber, side byside and chatting together in tones of intimacy, Michael PetrovitchGregoriev and Nicholas I. , Emperor of Russia. Nor was that all. For itwas the face not of the official but of his Imperial Majesty, that worean expression of uneasiness, of disquietude, almost--of alarm. 

Gregoriev left the Kremlin, by the Gate of the Saviour, on foot. He haddismissed his sleigh upon his arrival. But, though the afternoon was yetyoung, the light of the brief winter day was almost gone. Lights wereappearing in the shop-windows of the Tverskaia as Michael, muffledcomfortably in his sables, entered the celebrated street and walkedalong it, leisurely, in a direction leading directly away from hisdistant palace. He had no definite goal in mind. He was in the highhumor of immediate success. Many-colored Moscow lay all about him: hiscity, wherein he was known to and feared by, nearly every man. Labyrinththough it was, there was scarcely a corner, an alley, a court-yard inthat most jumbled of cities that he did not know. Moscow belonged to himas London to Dickens, Paris to Balzac. And, like the great novelists, his walks, always a delight, played also an important part in hisprofession. It was, however, rare that he issued forth in his presentguise. The Iákiminskaia, for instance, saw him oftenest as a pettymerchant; the Piatnitskaia as a Jewish or Tátar trader; the Basmanaia asa soldier, or petty officer off duty; other quarters as a member of aworkingman's artel, a university hanger-on, or a loafer, as theneighborhood demanded. To-day, however, being himself, he directed hissteps towards the fashionable part of the town, passing from theshopping district into the old Equerries' quarter lying behind, and westof, the Kremlin hill. It was possible that he had some hazy idea ofstartling his wife's family by an unwelcome visit; and from them gainingthe latest gossip concerning last night's ball. But the idea remainednebulous. Nicholas had responded too readily to his touch, the few linesof cipher on his map had proved too disturbing to the royal mind, forthe tormentor's pride not to have been restored by such evidence of hispower. He knew well that their recent talk, in which he had played hisdifficult part with genius, had left his Majesty fearful, not ofrevelations concerning mere peculations or juggled laws, but ofsomething touching his very seat upon the throne; a certain disclosurethat might bring up again that old, forgotten matter of his unnaturalaccession to the throne in place of his elder brother Constantine. AndMichael had an unfounded belief that the Czar would, therefore, in someunknown way, bring him, peaceably, the social power he now treblydesired. Therefore it was not difficult to turn him from his half-formedpurpose. 

Leaving the great street for the comparatively quiet Nikolskaia, hepresently encountered one of the unofficial companions of his leisurehours: a retired army officer, with a reputation at cards which fewgamblers cared to ignore. Colonel Lodoroff greeted the Prince with acustomary effusion, and found little difficulty in drawing him on to acertain small club, maintained by twenty members, of which the veryexistence was unknown to outsiders. Here, by day or by night, could befound companions for any carousal, partners for any known game of skillor chance; in short, that species of person which the ordinary club doesits best to exclude. The small building's exquisitely decorated roomswere not, however, unfamiliar to the eyes of certain members of theopposite sex, whose eligibility to admittance consisted only in certainpowers of attraction and entertainment. 

Within the discreet recesses of this nameless organization, MichaelPetrovitch spent two or three agreeable hours. And finally, at sixo'clock--more than an hour after despatching a short message to Piotr, in Konnaia Square--Gregoriev, with Lodoroff, three other men, andMesdames Nathalie, Anna, and Celéstine, whose last names were aschangeable as their complexions, set off, in four public droschkies, forthe Gregoriev palace. 

Piotr, on receipt of his master's note, carried it at once to his wife, who was one of the half-dozen serfs educated through the influence ofPrincess Sophia. And upon her explanation of its contents he rushed offto set the kitchens in a hum of preparation. It was no novelty, thisorder: a dinner for eight to be served at an hour's notice in hisexcellency's dining-room, that the Princess need not be "disturbed. " Thechef--a Frenchman, not a serf, chattered with excitement and displeasurewhile he composed his hurried menu. Piotr and Sósha, the major-domo, setto work together in the round dining-room in the Prince's wing, both ofthem thinking drearily of the task that must be theirs in that same roomon the following morning. And all through the servants' quarters mightbe heard, from time to time, a certain blasphemous little prayer, uttered in the expressionless tone that bespoke long familiarity: "Godbe merciful to us!"--the sign of the cross made in the air--"and causethe devil soon to take unto himself his own!"

But the lord of the underworld had evidently no present need of the soulof the head of the Gregoriev house. It was a quarter before seven whenthe Prince's special suite was invaded by the noisy party, already inthe first state of reckless exhilaration induced by an extravagant useof golden fluid so dear to the Russian palate. Piotr, Sósha, and threeor four of the older serfs who were accustomed to these entertainments, were in attendance, all of them drooping with the fatigue of theprevious day, but none of them pausing to marvel at the vitality oftheir master. The table was satisfactorily decorated. The ladies werepleased to praise their corsage bouquets of camellias so hurriedlyobtained; and all the party partook heartily of the _hors d'oeuvres_and liqueurs served on a side-table, according to the old Muscovitecustom. Gregoriev was the only one of them all who appeared to be quiteunaffected by what he had drunk. But he was, nevertheless, the evilgenius of the company, flattering the women, taunting the men, tocontinually increasing libations. 

Meantime, on the second floor of the palace, not far away from thatdining-room beneath, a very different meal was in progress. PrincessGregoriev, her sister, and Ivan, her boy, sat together at a small, roundtable, waited on by women. Only one of the three made much pretence ateating. Madame Gregoriev, red-eyed, but very calm, sat beside hersister, whose face also bore traces of recent tears. Both of the ladiescontinually pressed food upon the boy, who, as he ate with boyishheartiness, talked to them with the pleasant and wonderfulunconsciousness of childhood. The difficult hour was nearly over beforesounds of the affair below first began to be audible to them. But at thefirst, muffled scream of laughter, Madame Gregoriev started, violently, all the color flying from her face, and a ghastly pallor taking itsplace. The Countess Dravikine, after one instant of puzzledconsideration, leaned forward, and began a hastily animated conversationwith her nephew, upon all sorts of boyish affairs. Fortunately theeffort was needed only for a moment or two, for presently, Alexei, Ivan's special serf, a combination of playfellow and valet, who had beensummoned by the tactful Másha appeared in the doorway, waiting an orderto remove his young master. It was time. Madame Dravikine's voice couldno longer override the noise from below. Moreover, Ivan had now ceasedto eat, and was sitting motionless, his mouth drawn into a pitiful line, a spot of vivid red flaming from each pale cheek, his great eyeswistfully, anxiously, seeking those of his mother, which as persistentlyavoided them. Suddenly there came from below a piercing scream: a screamholding in it a note at which Caroline, forgetting everything else, sprang suddenly to her feet, crying:

"Sophia, the thing is unbearable! How can you possibly permit yourselfto endure it? For God's sake, pull yourself up, and leave this--"

"Ivan! Alexei is waiting for you. Go at once!" broke in the Princess, sharply, her eyes fixed upon her sister with a light of bitter reproofin their weary depths. At the same time, she held out both hands to herson. 

Without a word, the boy rose and went to his mother. A kiss passedbetween them. Then he turned and walked straight to the door. He did notonce look back. But neither woman failed to perceive that his delicatehands were clinched so tightly that the bloodless knuckles were tingedwith blue. 

When the door closed behind him, Sophia Ivanovna answered her sister'sunfinished question: "You think I should leave this house. Do you for aninstant imagine that he would permit his son to go with me? Am I then toleave my child here--to _that_?"

With a low exclamation, Caroline went forward and fell upon her kneesbeside her sister, asking for pardon between her shaking sobs. 

CHAPTER III

THE GREGORIEV HEIR

The west wing of the palace in the Serpoukhovskaia sheltered two beingswhose outward and inner lives, though divergent in every detail, werenevertheless bound fast together by the most powerful tie of nature andof law. But it was at the other end of the huge building that theredwelt the solitary offspring of this unnatural union, a boy now in theeleventh year of childhood, companionless, physically inactive, mentallyover-quick, perceptive, and quaintly imaginative. 

Despite the fact that solitude was as much the keynote of his existenceas of that of his father and mother, many eyes were concentrated uponthe development, spiritual and mental, of Ivan Gregoriev. Upon him hadbeen fastened the hopes even of the Gregoriev serfs, who were as devotedto him and to his mother as they were miserably afraid of their master. An hour's observation was enough to make plain the fact that Ivan had inhim not one of his father's characteristics. For this reason he was saidto resemble his mother. But as a matter of fact this statement washardly more true than one of the paternal resemblance would have been. The boy certainly worshipped his mother; who had been his one staffduring that fearful and lonely pilgrimage of his through dark caverns ofspeculation concerning the mysteries of his own and his mother'sisolation: facts of which he had been cognizant at a startling age. Fromthe first, indeed, he had stood, as it were, apart: a silent, observantyoung creature, not morbid nor markedly unnatural, yet holding withinhimself possibilities not to be found in the usual hobbledehoy of hisage. And though it is probable that, in after years, he felt hisaloofness far more keenly than at the present period, it was in hisearly boyhood that his sense of it was most apparent to others. 

That Ivan should, from the first, have been a lonely child, wasinevitable, considering his parentage. In the Russia of that day sons ofnoble families were not often kept under tutors. They were morefrequently sent to select private schools, where they would meet onlytheir own class, till they were of age to enter one or another of the"corps" or academies, started by Nicholas for the noble youths whom hewished to officer his army and people the royal households. YoungGregoriev, however, had, up to this time--the new year of 1852--worked, studied and dreamed by himself under the direction, first of his mother, recently of his tutor, Monsieur Ludmillo, the son of a Polish exile, educated in France, and only permitted to re-enter Russia upon the deathof his father, in 1847. This man, a gentle, melancholy idealist, like somany of his race, had early taken a sincere liking for his young pupil, nor found, as the years passed, anything special to complain of inIvan's performance of his tasks or his obedience during their many hourstogether. Of all, in short, who had to do with the young Prince, oneperson only, and that his father, felt any displeasure with him. ButPrince Michael looked upon his son with a kind of bitter, resentfulscorn as a creature of his mother's type: weak in character, and holdingwithin him not one of those fierce and reckless traits which thetraditional Gregoriev proudly claimed for his own. 

From the time of his babyhood, Ivan had lived in the extreme eastern endof the house--as far as possible from his father's rooms. In thisputting of him away even from her own proximity, Sophia had shown theself-sacrifice of devotion. During many a night had the unhappy womanlain thinking of her child, hungering for the pressure of his young headupon her breast, his little body by her side, nay, the sound of hissleeping breath in the same room with her. But she was determined tokeep him as unfamiliar as possible with the details of his father'sexistence; and only in this way was it to be done. By day, however, shelived in the room that was first nursery, later school and living room, making herself the companion of her boy in his every occupation, patiently, from day to day, searching his childish face for incipientsigns of unhappiness or melancholy. But it was not until she was toofamiliar with his every expression that such signs began to appear; andthen, through very over-intimacy, she failed to perceive the marks ofthose peculiar characteristics that had already begun to mould hisnature. 

At eleven, Ivan was tall and well grown, shapely of limb, delicate ofhand and foot, large-eyed, clear-skinned. In certain ways his face didsuggest the face of his mother. But the fine chiselling of her featureswas augmented in the sensitiveness of his lip and nostril; and for therest, his eyes, that resembled soft, black pansies, and his jet-black, stubborn hair, that grew like a thick, velvet cap above his smoothforehead, were all his own. His hands, likewise, were such as had neverbeen seen upon a Blashkov. They were white and hard, but pliable asrubber, their fingers extraordinarily long. In fact, they were hands forwhich any musician, teacher or virtuoso, would, had such commoditiesbeen marketable, have bought at any price. And this fact had early beenrecognized by Ivan's tutor, and by him eagerly seized upon and used. 

Monsieur Ludmillo was hardly the typical lazy, effeminate, creaturewhose only interests in life were holidays and the society of suchladies as would receive him. On the contrary he was conscientious, retiring to a point of absolute self-effacement, and able to forgethimself only in his one great passion: music. He was a Pole of theChopinesque type: and it was in spite of himself that he gave his pupil, besides the regular studies, a very thorough grounding in the classicalmasters, taught him something of the spirit of Schumann and Schubert, and even permitted in Ivan's repertoire such bits of Glinka and Sérov aswere to be managed by the boyish hands. Happily, Ludmillo had not livedenough in the fashionable world for him to endure the vapid floriditiesof the late Italian school; but there rose in him a secret delight whenhe heard his charge, left to himself, return again and again to the wildand haunting melodies of little Russia, Lithuania, and, above and beyondall, of rebellious, crushed, poetic Poland. 

The instrument on which Ivan gained his first understanding of the artthat he was to make his own, was one that had come into the palace uponthe marriage of his mother. In the days before the complete stifling ofher talents, Sophia had been wont often to dissipate the misery of herearlier disillusions in music. But there arrived a time when griefbecame too deep for such sentimental balm; and then the piano's paintedcover had been closed, as she believed, for good, and the instrument, ather orders, carried away to the unused room where, years afterwards, Ludmillo discovered it and put it into some sort of order. MadameGregoriev's assent to his timid request to have it moved to Ivan's roomshad been indifferently granted. But later, when, in the candle-lit dusk, Ivan and his tutor drew instinctively together before the instrument, they were more and more often joined by another figure, silentlystealing, who would listen to the half-forgotten melodies of otheryears that were, for her, ghost-haunted, till further endurance becameimpossible, and she would leave the twain again, and, through the lonelynight, weep away some of the still-rankling bitterness, the incurablesmart, of her many wounds. Later, however, came days when the memoriesheld less of sadness, and, in those rich, slow harmonies, she began todiscern vague thoughts, faintest hopes that, somewhere, perhaps deep inthe fire-heart of God, she should learn His excuse for suffering: betaught the wherefore of the present: receive that compensation that mustexist, to balance the account held for her by eternity. In time she cameeven to think a little of the music-maker: that silent man to whom herown existence seemed a thing peaceful and fine in its absolute securityfrom any form of want. She realized, through him, those other thousandsin the world who had lived through lifetimes of conscious insignificanceand unattainable desire, nor thought these serious evils. In short shewas given a horizon whereon she began to see things properlyproportioned. And there, at last, she beheld also her son, and all thepossibilities in the future of those for whom the road of life lies allahead. But even she, who knew him best of all, knew little of Ivan'sinner self. She never surmised his strange consciousness of the mightyvoid within his soul: the aching gap that his life could never fill: theunspoken question that waited in him, fulminating, till he should atlast demand his answer from the most high God. 

In the face of such things it is difficult to reiterate the denial thatIvan was a morbid boy. True, he bore an inheritance from his mother. Thelife she had led before his birth had certainly left its mark upon him. But that instinctive sadness had in her been tinged with an inner joy:the joy of eager motherhood. And in Ivan this joy found its repetitionin a vein of practical gayety. There were days when his mischief was asdiabolical as one could wish it: when Ludmillo, tormented, was stillbrought to laugh at his piquant, irresistible nonsense. Nor was the boywithout other traits of his sex and age. There were weeks when he wasfull of the wildest plans for his future career; being all for the joysof the physical, beside which mental labor was to play a mostunimportant rôle. He would be an explorer. Siberia, North America, Central Africa, were to open before his determined efforts. Or theCelestial Empire might be penetrated to its innermost recesses by him inhis undetectable disguise; and he was to come home by the caravan routeladen with costliest treasures. Again it was all his wish to be anotherNimrod: Indian tigers, American buffaloes, African elephants were to godown in thousands before his imaginary gun. While once more (this whenhis every spare moment was divided between _Peter the Great_ and the_Arabian Nights_), he saw himself, at the head of a Cossack army, storming Constantinople and carrying away the most beautiful Princessever enslaved in royal harem. And while the boy silently performed thesegreat deeds, he was also engaged upon a few simpler, but more salutaryphysical feats in a neighboring gymnasium, whence he emerged withmuscles fairly well-developed, and a hand and eye unusually quick at thefoils. 

His days were kept wisely full. At that time it was the custom to cramchildren rather unmercifully. But Sophia and Ludmillo together madesaner disposal of Ivan's hours. He was made to know thoroughly what heknew. And it was their great effort to keep him busy enough to prevent areal appreciation of his isolated life. Their plans were made skilfullyand carried out to the letter. Wherefore the fact that their end was notactually accomplished, could be charged only to the merciless quicknessof the boy's own apperceptions. 

How early it was that he learned the difference between himself andothers, it would be nearly impossible to say. His mother, indeed, wasprobably spared the discovery of his knowledge. For he was reservedbeyond his years, and a violent secret pride was his one unsuspectedGregoriev trait. However it happened, Ivan learned, as a very littleboy, that only in his life was no provision ever made for visits to andfrom others of his kind. He knew that he had been left out of the livesof his class: that the young Mirskies, Blashkovs, Kropotkins, Osínin, visiting almost daily among themselves, never came to, never asked for, him. He even divined the one or two half-hearted attempts on hismother's part to obtain for him at least the occasional companionship ofher own nephews and second-cousins. But what it was that hurt him sounconscionably about this knowledge he did not realize until after hehad come into manhood. It was doubtful if even his mother, suffering forhim, had a greater sense of unhappiness than he, in his blind sense ofinjustice somewhere. For to Sophia, ostracism had long since become akind of second nature. But for her son it still had all the misery ofperennial newness. 

Nevertheless, despite the deadening of time, the mother-yearning overher child's loneliness never wholly left the poor Princess. In the caseof the ball, for instance, if her labor for its success, if the carespent on its details, the summoning of Caroline from Petersburg, theunwonted extravagance of her Paris costume, had one and all beensuggested by her husband, they had been carried out by her not for hissake nor for her own; but for the sake of all that it might afterwardsaccomplish for Ivan. Once she and Prince Michael were actually accepted, their son must naturally find his new place. Thus, for weeks before theevent, she had seen Ivan, in her dreams, taking his place among as yetunknown companions: outstripping all rivals in brilliance and inpopularity. And after the ball, though some of her dreary disappointmenthad, unquestionably, been for herself, the better part of it, also, hadbeen for the child whose protector she had always been. It was almost apity that she was so careful never to drag him into the shadows of herlife. Had he once surmised them, the two, mother and son, might havefound a companionship in sorrow that would mean more to them both thanall their separate, painful pretence of happiness--or contentment. 

Everything considered, Ivan saw much of his mother; and next to nothingof his father. And because of the apparent mystery with which the Princewas surrounded before his son: his mother's reluctance in speaking ofhim, the serfs' sign for avoidance of the evil-eye when the master wasmentioned, even Monsieur Ludmillo's careful reticence on the subject, Michael came, by degrees, to play a foremost part in his son'simaginings: a part at once heroic and terrible. Ivan knew very well thathis father was not a good man: that he frequently did hateful thingsthat seriously hurt his mother. Nevertheless, there was a strongfascination about such a personality. Gigantic, fierce, wild, darklyomniscient, mysteriously terrible, he stalked in a mental lime-lightthrough Ivan's dreams. His existence, in the boyish imagination, wasmore adventurous than that of any hero of Scheherazade. And perhaps thegreatest charm of all was the fact that, in all seriousness, Ivanbelieved his father actually capable of most of the deeds he arranged inhis thoughts. 

The boy had been told of his father's importance to the Government; hispower in Moscow. But this was a matter to be so much taken for grantedthat it brought little additional pride. Ivan's imaginary father hadlong been invested with greater honors than these. He would much havepreferred a satisfactory explanation of the one point which troubledhim mightily: which had filled many of his nights with unsuspectedgrief, and disturbed his day-dreams while he puzzled, anxiously, overknown facts that had become too inconsistent with his beliefs forcomfort. That scene enacted in his mother's rooms, at supper, on theevening after the ill-starred ball, when, at his mother's bidding, hehad left her, knowing that she wished to keep him from questions thatmust not be asked, was neither the first such affair that he had seen, nor yet the tenth. He had left the room with hands clinched and hisheart burning with anger: anger against--whom? what? The person whobrought the look he could not bear into his mother's eyes; the thingthat reopened those never-healed wounds he knew she bore within her. Andthese wounds?--the suffering in her look?--Well, he knew, well enough, of course, that they had all been made by his father! But the father ofsuch deeds was not the embodiment of romance that he had created out ofthe stuff of dreams! There was, then, another; a reality: terrible, perhaps, but also despicable, and full of things so mean, so low, thathe was hardly even to be hated? Already he could feel that hate was astrong passion, not unflattering to its object. But--a man whoill-treated women:--Incredible!

This was Ivan's immediate tangle. And, mercifully, tangle it remainedfor many years. Only by degrees so gradual that they hardly hurt, did hebegin at last to draw away from the ideal, and accept, with whateverreluctance, the real. At the very end, the struggle may have been sharp. But this was simply because the idealized being himself seized and toreaway his last shred of illusion, and stood, bare-souled, before the sonwho could only sit and gaze in horrified, horrible judgment. 

 * * * * *

It happened in this wise. 

Through the years of his son's infancy and boyhood Michael Gregoriev, disregarding all thought of his child, saw practically nothing of theboy. He had, in his heart, some faint satisfaction concerning Ivan'ssex, mingled with a fancy, gained after one accidental interview, thatnevertheless, considering his tastes and traits, Sophia's child shouldhave been a girl. Later, as Ivan began to emerge a little from utterchildishness, his father had resorted occasionally to his school-room tosearch the little dweller there for certain longed-for signs oftemperament. Not finding them, he once more put his son away, this timefuriously raging that he should have been given a Blashkov heir. Nevertheless, because Ivan was his all, and because the Prince, to hisown discomfiture, found himself constantly building careers for asuccessor, there came again a day when his wild heart turned one lasttime towards the boy, and, calculating his age, he was astonished tofind that his son had passed the first year of his teens. 

That summer--the summer of 1854--Madame Gregoriev, Ivan, and Ludmillohad spent at the Princess' favorite country-place, the tiny estate ofMaidonovo, near Klin. Here, in the spot where she had fewest memories ofthe man whose name she bore, Sophia found that she could, for a fewweeks, rally from the weakness, the premonitory pain and itsaccompanying dread which had lately found definite place in her life. Here the summer skies were of Italian blue; the bells rang through airliquidly golden, perfumed, rich with the murmur of insect life. And herethe three, mother, son, and their quiet companion, walked thecountry-side, watching, first, the hurried sowing, fostering and reapingof the brief-seasoned crops, and then the mad Russian festivals whichterminate the frightful summer labor. This year marked itself especiallyin Ivan's mind; because it was the first in which he began to be hauntedby unremembered harmonies and melodies that throbbed again and againacross his brain till he would rush, in a frenzy, to the piano, and playthem swiftly away as one ridding himself of a torment. And it was atthis time rather a misery to him than a delight that, within a fewhours, they were always back again, driving him to continued ponderingover strange mysteries of tone. 

It was the end of September before the little party returned to Moscow, driven thither by premonitions of swift-approaching winter. A fortnightmore, and, on the seventh of the month, Ivan would enter his fifteenthyear. But it was three days before his birthday when the incidentoccurred which prepared him for its unusual celebration. For while, atdusk on the evening of the fourth day of the month, Ivan sat alone inhis music-room, he was approached by Piotr and silently conducted acrossthe building and into the presence of his father. 

Michael received his son in his public office: a room which, to the boy, appeared a fitting frame for the figure of the Prince, magnificent ingold-embroidered uniform; booted, spurred, fiery-eyed andfierce-mustached, but for all that showing a softened light in his faceas he perceived his son. 

Piotr was promptly dismissed, and Ivan seated at the huge table whencehe could gaze at the burly figure opposite him as long as his eyes hadcourage to look up. Nevertheless the pause was uncomfortable enough; andthe boy was glad when the silence ended. 

"Ivan! you're now at the age at which I entered my first battle--asdrummer-boy--and had--Hm! my first love-affair. Are you in love?"

Ivan's velvet eyes lifted themselves slowly to the glittering orbs setin the dark face. No word passed the young lips, but Michael read, plainly enough, the wondering displeasure in the boyish face. Slightlyamused, he went on, relentlessly:

"This week, you're fourteen: a man, in short. Now, what have you donethat men can do?"

A fiery reply flew suddenly to the boy's lips; but there it stuck. Hecould not speak to this man of his mother. Again he chose silence forhis answer. 

"Nothing? You don't speak? Bah!" Michael brought his fist down upon thetable, till everything in the room danced. "Bah! It's a girl I've got! Aninny. A milk-sop. --I thought so! Your lips--your cheeks--_you_--aGregoriev!" But the glittering eyes, striving to fathom those others, were caught in a sudden quiet depth, wavered for an instant, and--werelowered! Then Michael sat in a frown, elbows on the table, his chin onhis hand, thinking. Ivan, meantime, this little feat accomplished, satwaiting, uneasily, for a decision or--a dismissal. He waited for sometime; but the end was worth it--perhaps. When his father spoke again, his tone was serious:

"Well, I shall try you, after all. Here, on Thursday--your birthday, mind! you shall meet life. I'll give you a supper, an early one, at teno'clock. Tell your mother about that from me. But Piotr will come todress you. I'll have no baby about. He'll bring the suit I command youto wear; and--we'll see. 

"Tell your mother, Ivan, that at last--on the seventh of this month, herrule ends. The last Gregoriev becomes a man--or else--he leaves theGregoriev house! Do you hear? Prepare yourself, then, and--go!"

So, without another look, Michael caught his cloak and cap up from achair and strode from the room, leaving his son behind him. Presently, however, Piotr came to lead away the dazed and bewildered boy. 

Once more in his own room Ivan sat down, in a corner, to think. In thebeginning, he could only go over and over the recent scene. Consideringit, it seemed almost like some vivid dream, so unnatural had been hisfather's conduct and manner of speech. And himself! How preposterouslyhe had behaved! Not a word, not a single sign of response orcomprehension could he remember having given. Certainly his father mightvery well think him a--"milk-sop, " was it, he had said?

For a day or two Ivan lived, in secret, through that scene. And afterforty-eight hours it dawned upon him that he was beginning to live in anever-increasing dread of that approaching supper-party, "at which he wasto become a Gregoriev!" Those over-sensitive, over-perceptive youngnerves of Ivan's had divined more of his father's mind than Michaelbelieved. And now a sure and certain instinct was warning the boy ofdanger. Nevertheless--disobey the Prince's command? Ivan shivered. Notappear, on his birthday evening, before the guests that would be--his?Impossible! Well, something he had yet to do. There remained one commandof his father's which, up to this moment, he had felt reluctant tofollow. This was the message to his mother. Should he take it to hernow; or should he not?

Ivan had reached this point in his reverie of the late afternoon ofTuesday, when the Princess came quietly into the room where he sat. Withan exclamation, he rose, and went to her; and presently they were seatedside by side upon a long divan, Ivan's warm young hand clasped tightlyin two that were dry and burning. The boy, relieved, gave a long, quietsigh; but it was Sophia who began to speak. 

"Ivan, yesterday you saw your father?"

"Ah! You _know_, then, mother?"

"Know--what, my son?"

"What--what he said? About my saint's-day supper? Mother, I was to tellyou. He said, tell you that, on the seventh--that's the day--your ruleis over, and I become a Gregoriev. But, oh mother, it's not so, youknow!"

This last Ivan added with eager haste; for Sophia had given a low cry, and her hands so tightened upon his that the grip hurt, rather. Butafter he had spoken she waited a little, her head bent so that he couldnot see her face in the twilight. When at last she lifted it to him itwas very white; but the lips did not tremble, the voice was steady. "Heis to give you a supper on this night? He told you so? Spoke about yourmanhood--at fourteen?" she added, in a whisper, to herself. 

"So he said, Madame. And I did not like it. My father is a very strangeman. "

"Then, you do not _want_ this supper?" her gaze at him was intense, butthe dignity had fully returned to it. 

To her secret consternation, however, Ivan hesitated. "I--no--yes--Mother, ought I not to want it?"

For some seconds Sophia stared at him, trying to fathom the exactpurport of his question. Then her whole aspect changed. She took his twohands and drew them to her breast, and kissed and bowed her head uponthem; and presently, though Ivan was clinging to her and demandingexplanation, she rose, hastily, and left the room. 

Her going was impulsive. That which prompted it had come to her in asudden flash. Into Ivan's wistful question she had discerned some senseof loyalty towards the other parent; and, in that instant, she wasashamed. After all, he was Michael's own son. Must she, then, be surethat he sought to do the boy harm? Nay, for once in her life she shouldbe brave again. First of all, she must try, as never before, to trustthe father of her son. Secondly, she must also trust that son. If Ivanfound himself, at the promised supper, in moral danger, he wouldinstinctively know it. Then, if he made no effort to escape, of what useprotection, or love, or fear, on her part, forevermore? No feminineforce could keep him from going, eventually, down the Gregoriev road. 

With such reasoning did the woman try to control the secret, risingterror that was on her. It would not be wholly downed; yet she succeededin keeping her own counsel during the next two days, and in that won avictory greater than she knew. For the Princess never guessed thatduring this time Michael waited in hourly, ironic expectation of somesort of protest on her part. And neither master nor mistress suspectedthat, on Wednesday evening, the serfs, kept informed by Piotr, Alexei, and Másha of a little more than all, held solemn conclave in their ownhouse at the back of the inner court-yard. There Michael their lord wasduly cursed, their lady in the same way pitied; and, above all, theydiscussed the possibility of giving the young master some sort ofprotection at that impending festivity. The matter of open protest toPrince Michael was actually brought up. For, alas! these simple folkknew more than their lady of the usual details of their master's orgies;and the thought of Ivan's participation in the simplest of them was ashorrifying to these slaves as to the gentle lady they served. But thebold proposition came at last to nothing. For which of these lame dogswas to beard the lion in his lair?

Wednesday and most of Thursday passed, for mother and son, in afluctuating succession of every mood known to their respective natures. Finally, on the afternoon of his birthday, Ivan, furious at theindignity, was forced into an hour or two of preparatory rest. But sorestless had been his recent nights that his very protests driftedpresently into sound unconsciousness, and he only awoke at candle-light, to find Piotr bending over him, and his promised suit, gorgeous evenbeyond expectation, lying at hand. And here Michael showed a touch ofhis wonderful knowledge of human weakness; for that suit played havocwith Ivan. There was courage to be found in the crimson cloth, interestin the gold embroidery, ardent curiosity in the gleaming boots, analmost swagger in the empty sword-belt. Truly, his Highness hadcalculated well. By the appointed hour, Ivan was aflame. Once dressed, he relinquished the idea of going to his mother for a parting kiss. Hefelt, instead, that his "manhood" had already come upon him, and thatkisses were for children. Still, it was a relief to find that, had hewished it, his half-promised visit would not have been feasible; for, ere the last buckle was fastened, Sósha had come to escort his youngPrince, with due ceremony, in his first descent into the traditionalhell of his fathers. 

Ivan was too little of his own blood, a youth too habitually andinstinctively pure-minded, to comprehend, in the first glance, thatsupper scene, and gain therefrom life-long disillusionment. For him, even after he had left it, there remained in some sort a glamour over itall--the softening veil of lights and laughter, the gleam of plate andthe perfume of flowers, which successfully hid the blackest ugliness. The first fresh frost was still upon his glass; and through it thegolden wine was beautiful as it could not be for those about him, whosaw, as it were, through tepid crystal, a flat and nauseous vintagehardly to be borne even for the faint quickening of the blood still tobe obtained from it. But with Ivan it was as his mother had hoped. Shestill sheathed him as in a coat of mail; yet that night the sword ofdisaster glanced off it as by a miracle only. 

Was this man indeed a father who could find place for his boy at such atable, beside the woman who awaited him? who could command the boy inone breath to drain his glass, and Piotr in the next to refill it?

Within twenty minutes Ivan's head was light with the delicious poison ofthat exquisite wine. So transparently white grew his skin, so huge andvelvety his black eyes, so serious his finely chiselled mouth, that evenCelestine and Cerisette began to feel, somewhere beneath that hardenedouter shell of "temperament, " a disregarded organ filled with along-forgotten, aching sensation that was not to be encouraged. Regarding the quiet boy whose gold embroidery glittered so bravely inthe light, they grew painfully silent; and in that silence secretlyreproached the man who put them to such abominable usage. Indeed, Gregoriev himself, always quick to take the temperature of a company, was presently amazed at the tone beginning to prevail over this one. Thescreaming laughter had been modified; the unquestionable conversationsstilled. But the wine, for these very reasons, was flowing faster, aseach member of that company sought to deaden those strangely rousedsensations which most of them had believed forever dead for them. Gregoriev perceived how many eyes remained fixed reflectively on thewhite face of the young Prince, in whose eyes was beginning to dawn alook of comprehension. And they saw with fear the gleam of mockery thatwas glowing in Michael's orbs. The host, indeed, had planned, but foundno time in which to execute, a new and daring _coup_, before his son hadsprung to his feet, lifted his brimming glass in a hand grown tremulous, and dashed it violently at the nearest wall, where it shivered intosplinters, its contents falling, in one heavy, golden mass, upon therug. Then, mouth set, head erect, he turned from the company and walkedsteadily out of the room. But, the door once closed behind him, once outof range of his father's mocking eyes, he began to run, madly, throughthe narrow corridor, into the central hall and up the staircase, whencehe presently precipitated himself into the bedroom of his mother, whowas sitting in a lounging-chair before a blazing fire. 

At the unexpected appearance, Sophia rose with a cry. Only the angelscould have read all the anguish which that utterance bore from her--allthe pent-up misery of a woman tortured during the last hours beyondevery power of endurance. High God had heard her at last. Her son hadreturned to her, unconstrained, of his own will, up from that depth, from that nether hell, to the sounds of which she had been listening fora long hour. But now her boy was clasped within her arms, his suddenlyburning cheek pressed to hers, his wine-tainted breath, mingling withher half-restrained sobs as she cried over him only half coherently:

"Ivan--little one--son of my heart--you came back to me!"

"Oh, little mother! Little mother! Keep me safe--from _him_!"

CHAPTER IV

THE CORPS OF CADETS

In the old, feudal days of quick-spilled blood and easy death, there wasa certain fateful, epoch-making cry which had power to carry dread orterror through the high ranks of the official world, while it brought toothers exultant hopes of desires and ambitions at last to be fulfilled. It was a cry of life and of death, of the ending of one rule, thebeginning of another, consisting of two phrases from which nations tooktheir being; which were cried aloud by men in robes of mingled black andwhite and punctuated by the breaking of a black, the flourishing of awhite, wand. It is the cry with which history ends and begins: "Le Roiest mort! Vive le Roi!"

Now Russia, in the middle of the nineteenth century, was almost Europein the sixteenth. It was on February 18, 1855, that the reign of theIron Czar actually came to an end. But the news of his death was madepublic in Moscow only two days later. For forty-eight hours the suddenclosing of that rule, which had been as sombre, as turbulent, astyrannical as that of any Borgia or Medici, was concealed from thenation. But the morning of the twenty-first found the petty-officialworld, risen early from sleepless unrest, pushing aside its early tea tore-read the unexpected bulletin from the Hermitage. 

High and low, from the Minister of the Interior to the humblest customsinspector, waited, trembling, for the readjustment. But MichaelPetrovitch Gregoriev, who, it might have been thought, had good causefor apprehension, came down from his bedroom at the usual hour, shuthimself into his sanctum, sat down to stare thoughtfully at a certainportion of his hieroglyphic map, and then, with a deep, relieving sigh, fared vigorously forth to the day's officialdom. 

And it soon appeared that Monsieur Gregoriev's confidence was justified. More yet, special favor was shown him. He passed his summer in a longand important journey through Southern Russia, travelling especiallythrough battle-scarred Crimea, and, returning with his report to Moscow, found awaiting him that for which he had vainly intrigued for years. Thus his wife was hastily summoned from her retirement at Baden-Baden, where she had been joyously living with Ivan and her sister; and shereturned, drearily, to Moscow, to receive a blow she had never thoughtto dread. 

It was again the evening of October seventh when Ivan, called from thequiet festivity he was enjoying with his mother and Ludmillo, followedPiotr unwillingly into the presence of his father, who awaited him inhis official room. Left alone at the closed door, Ivan entered, slowly, and was motioned to a seat opposite his father at the paper-piled table. 

For a moment or two Michael regarded him thoughtfully. Then all at oncehe cried out: "_You_ my son! God! What a baby it is!"

Ivan's face flamed and his lips twitched; but, in the end, he held histongue. After all, did it matter what this man said?

Michael, watching him, and in some measure reading his thought, let hisface soften again. "Well, it may be better that way. Listen, Mikhailovitch! I have done for you what has been done for no Gregorievbefore. You are to be pushed up the ladder. You're to be deostracized. In the end, you'll find that Petersburg will receive you. They must; forat last I've obtained your commission in the Cadet Corps: somethingthat none of our race has ever had. I tried, of course, for the Pages, but that they wouldn't give. Nevertheless, you'll come out an ensign ofthe line, and I can buy your lieutenancy in a guard regiment within themonth. You understand?"

Michael paused, and fixed his keen eyes on the boy who was now on hisfeet, motionless, his brows knitted. He was a little bewildered by theunexpectedness of the thing. Yet he did understand--tumultuously, whatthat great news meant. 

"When do I leave here?" he asked, presently, in a voice that was strangeto him. 

"In one week--to the day. There are preparations to be made. You go likethe Prince you are. Christ! If _I_ had had the chance!"

This last, muttered exclamation, Ivan scarcely heard. He was stillstaring down at the table, trying to readjust himself, to resolve histhoughts into either joy, or--more difficult--regret. The silence seemedlonger than it was. Then Ivan looked up, silently asking permission togo. But he found his father's unholy eyes fixed on him, andinstinctively he shrank backward, trying to cover his naked soul fromthat piercing vision. 

"Wait! I've not finished yet. I want you to see just what I'm givingyou. I want you to understand the start you're getting. Do you realizethat, unless you make an unholy fool of yourself, within four years allPetersburg will be open to you? At twenty you will penetrate to thoseplaces to which I--_I_, with all the--experience, and the intimateknowledge I've got, shall never be admitted. I can buy commissions foryou in any regiment. But in the end I don't intend you for the army. Oh, if I could have started you in the Pages Corps! Still, your advance iscertain. And this is my first, middle, and last advice to you: walkinstantly to the very centre of the first high intrigue that presentsitself--everywhere. You'll find them even at the Corps--in your firstyear. For in Russia, Ivan, a full comprehension of that great game meanspower. Understand, the utterance of such a sentiment would mean Siberia. But this young Alexander is simply a puppy. He's to be influenced by afootman--by a serf! See that you reach him, then. Study him: learn him:absorb him. Then find your own methods and stick to them; stopping atabsolutely nothing they may carry you to. It's the stopping, sooner orlater, that is the universal mistake: the mistake I've never made--elseI should have been in the gutter yet. You begin, Ivan, where I end. Isee no limit for you. Petersburg will hold more than one emptyportfolio. But you must not look below the highest. Take the Interiorfor yourself. To-night, Ivan, I, your father, make you Premier ofRussia. Am I so careless of my son?"

Once more Michael's gloomy, flashing eyes were fastened upon Ivan'suplifted face; nor was he wholly dissatisfied at the unquestionableinterest he perceived in the boy's expression. Ivan, indeed, feltpetrified at the vista opened up before him. It seemed as if hisfather's words were burning themselves into his brain. And yet, even ashe waited, quietly, for the dismissal that soon came, these ambitions ofhis father's for him were succeeded by something all his own: a thing asyet only half understood, and held secret in his heart out of dread ofhearing it mocked or of finding it something common to all men. While, then, the words "Premier of Russia" still echoed through his head, thererose upon his inner ear a sudden note of melody, vagrant, sweet andmelancholy as the songs of the Steppes. Known song it was not, however;but something unique, as were all the airs that came to him unbidden. Under its influence it was natural that his face should change, andsoften. But Michael, imagining that rapt expression to be the result ofhis own words, was well satisfied; and he sent the boy from him sopreoccupied with his uncomprehended gift, that the immediate prospect ofthe new life faded, for the moment, into the dim land of the unimportantReal. 

This brief ecstasy of unsought happiness could not last, however. Duringthe ensuing days Ivan was obliged to banish dreams, and yield himself topreparations for that change which, though it should have broughtsomething of eager anticipation to his boy's mind, was really investedwith an unreasonable dread: dread rooted no less in a presentiment ofhis own than in the expression of his mother's face, the morning rednessof her eyes, the uncontrollable quiver of her lip. Sophia, indeed, hadreceived a blow that she was not to recover from. But the full misery ofher immediate future she could, fortunately, not as yet surmise. 

The farewell between Ivan and his quiet tutor was somewhat pathetic. Theprospects of the Pole were, in their way, far drearier than those of hispupil. He was an intensely shy man; and yet the thought of leaving thehome which had come so perfectly to suit his sensitive temperament, wasto him more calamitous than the prospect of finding and fitting himselfinto another place. On the last morning, master and pupil spoke butlittle. Ivan sat drearily strumming out one of the nocturnes of thatyoung countryman of Ludmillo's, lately dead but already hailed immortalby a select few, Monsieur Chopin; and the heart-break in its strangeharmonies seemed to express all that neither of them dared attempt tosay. Fortunately, the strain did not last long. It was barely teno'clock when Casimir, having imprinted a kiss upon the hand of hisPrincess, and actually left another on Ivan's scarlet cheek, was driven, with his modest box, away from the familiar portal into the unfriendlyrealms beyond. With him slipped away the first large piece of Ivan'schild-world. And the rest of it was not to be long in following. 

Of the final clinging of Sophia to her child, the child of hermartyrdom, the man-child who must be relinquished now to the world thatcalled to him, who shall write? Torn mother-love stares not out frompaper pages, in the cold black and white of print. Poor Princess! Shewas strong in neither mind nor body. Trained to a fashionable youngladyhood of delicacy, vapors and graceful fainting-fits, there had beenlittle in her married life to build up fortitude and the courage toendure unwelcome griefs. From day to day her little store of bravery hadbeen drawn upon, extravagantly. For in Sophia, fear bred no angry pride, but rather a flat despair. And it had come to a point at last where eventhe hauteur of her class would no longer suffice to cover thehumiliations of her daily life. Now that the final climax had come, itfound her quite denuded of all force, all strength, all hope. Her one_raison d'être_ was to be removed, her single prop drawn from her. Therefore she fell, quietly, with scarcely a word of protest, only aninstant of tottering. This the metaphor. To speak plainly, so completewas her desolation that, outwardly, she betrayed nothing. Ivan was drawnto wonder at it; but he left her, perhaps, with the less anxiety, beingtoo inexperienced in the ways of grief to worry as a woman might havedone over this attitude towards their parting. Nevertheless, the memoryof their last evening together lay graven so ineffaceably upon Ivan'sheart, that he recalled it clearly, in its every incident, during thelast hour of his life. 

It was a Sunday--the evening of the day of Ludmillo's departure. Ivanhad been summoned to his mother's room, where he found her sitting, rather wearily, he thought, before a table on which steamed a brightlypolished samovar, surrounded by the dishes of a tempting meal, devisedby Másha to suit the respective tastes of her lady and the young Prince. Darkness had fallen an hour before, and the room, with its quaint oldfurniture, tapestry-hung walls, and old oaken floor strewn with Bokhararugs, was lighted by three swinging-lamps that cast red reflections uponthe polished wood of wainscot and floor. Mother and son sat side by sideat the table, and, while they ate, made little attempt at conversation. Instinctively, each was waiting for the other to speak. 

But the inevitable talk, at thought of which Sophia's heart flutteredtill her breath was all but gone, was not allowed a natural beginning. After a time there came from below the first of a crescendo ofsounds--that noise of muffled voices, long since familiar to the room. As the sound increased, and the laughter began to be punctuated byclangs of shivering glass, the woman and the boy drew closer together, and began a hasty conversation, each trying to draw the attention of theother away from that which occupied them both irresistibly. It was longbefore there arrived any diminution in the unholy racket. But at last, by some fortunate caprice, the party evidently decided to leave thehouse for some place of public amusement; so that, at last, the greatpalace was wrapped in its wonted, daytime stillness. And in the firstminutes of this, Ivan, as if he read his mother's thoughts, grew silent, and turned to her expectantly. 

His hope was fulfilled. That night, acting impulsively upon ahalf-considered plan, Sophia, for the first and last time in her life, laid bare her heart before her son. The boy listened in a silence thatgrew by degrees from reverent interest to pity, from pity to horror, from horror to absolute fury, till, thinking of the Gregoriev blood thatran in his veins, he longed to tear from his breast the heart which hadbeen made to beat by the man below--that father whom he now saw in thefull light of truth. It was in that hour that Ivan put away from himforever all childish things. His mother's story, so direfully heightenedby reason of all which she left to the intuition and imagination of herlistener, suddenly brought him to an understanding of true womanhoodthat is the portion of very few experienced men. It seemed as if hisexistence had been enveloped in all that was foul, and wicked, andheart-breakingly pathetic in the world. And afterwards he realized thatin that evening was sown in him a seed which was to bear bitter fruit:the seed of the Russian Tosca, that _Herzeleide_, which has stampedevery one of the company of illustrious Slavs with an indelible print ofmelancholy. 

Sophia probably did not realize Ivan's capacity for feeling or for pity. Yet she had a purpose in the telling of her story. Ivan, a Gregoriev, must be given the opportunity of knowing how a woman's soul can bekilled within her. Then, should he follow the footsteps of his race, hissin would be upon his own head. Nevertheless, she used little art in hertale, and she drew therefrom neither moral nor homily. Of what useeither of these? What remonstrance was there that could hold a trueGregoriev from the pursuits of his maturity? At the same time, if Ivanwas what she believed him to be, he could read the moral as he ran. Shespoke from a bursting heart, and only in small degree relieved herselfby speaking. Nor did she mention their approaching parting; forreference to this subject was beyond her. Ivan must divine what he couldof her feeling, or he must believe her callous in her great despair. 

Meantime the boy had yielded one slender hand to his mother's clasp; theother was tightly clinched. He sat bolt upright, his burning eyes fixedsternly on the wall before him, his face pallid save for the two roundspots of flaming red that burned high upon his cheekbones. His heart wasthrobbing irregularly. And in his brain, amid the chaos of brokenideals, crumbled idols, and all the jumbled facts of his newunderstanding of misery and of evil:--amid all his strange and vibrantemotions, there thundered gigantically a series of magnificent minorchords forming a motive over-poweringly climatic. It was the same themeof "hope abandoned, " which, nearly forty years later, was to open thelast movement of his greatest work: that "Tosca Symphony" which hasmoved the whole world to wondering tears. Many times during thesucceeding years it left his memory, and he would try vainly to recallit. But circumstances always rose to bring it again to his mind; till, at last, recurrent pain had fixed it there forever: that world-theme, which had its birth on this first Sunday of his sixteenth year. 

It was eleven o'clock when Madame Gregoriev, worn out and trembling withfeeling, finally ended her narrative. It was midnight before she andIvan kissed good-night. During that whole hour, neither one of themuttered a word. Ivan had sunk to the floor at his mother's feet, hishead in her lap, his burning hands clasped in her icy ones, his throatcontracting ever and again with the dry, gasping sob of extreme emotion. Sophia, on the contrary, sat above him, her head lifted, her pale facecalm, her tearless eyes gazing off into some far country of her own. Yetbefore their minds lay the same picture--that of a woman's woe: a pettything, the commonest of all affairs in the man-ruled world, yet hardly athing to be discussed. Some reverence, or understanding, must be grantedit by the dullest mind. So, as the distant voice of Moscow's great bellboomed its twelve strokes, Ivan rose, slowly, as one still in his dream;went for a moment into the mother-clasp; and then, still withoutspeaking, turned to pass, for the last night, down the corridor leadingto the distant wing in which were his own rooms. 

 * * * * *

It was on a Monday--beginning of the working week--the morning ofOctober fourteenth in the year 1855, that Ivan went out into the world. His flight was not far: merely to the other end of Moscow; but it ledinto a life that he had been unable to imagine in the smallest detail. Once there, it took him less than a week to perceive that, while hisvague hopes of companionship were scarcely to be realized, he was todrink to its dregs his preconceived cup of unhappiness. 

The four great _Corps des Cadets_, created in the mid-reign of the IronCzar, had been devised especially for the preparation of youthfulRussian nobility for their respective places in the military, possiblythe official, world. As it presently turned out, these great schoolswere destined to become hot-beds of tyranny, intrigue, rivalry, caste-feeling, and snobbery in their worst forms. Hence, considering thecertain future of each cadet, the Corps afforded an even more adequatepreparation for bureaucratic methods than their creator had had reasonto expect. In the Moscow institution every inmate, from its head, Colonel Becker, to the youngest boy of the fourth class, was subject toa government of favoritism, bribery, deceit, and the pettiest meanness, in which was no room whatever for advancement along the lines ofconscientious work, honesty, or honor. Here prestige of birth, oraptitude for intrigue, carried all before them; for this was, indeed, the period of the worst mismanagement these schools were to know. Inlater years the Liberator found time to look to them. At present--in theMoscow Corps, Sitsky, "Cock" of the school, a vicious dunce of twenty, would never be called upon to yield his position to Kashkarev, abrilliant scholar and a thoroughly scrupulous boy of eighteen, who wasgenerally despised because his grandfather had been a Pole. 

In this gathering, where all were in some degree noble, the distinctionsdrawn by the boys themselves between lineage and wealth, politicalprestige and the quiet conservatism of lofty birth, were so arbitrary, so contradictory, so innately Russian, that the very masters, who, fromBecker down, were German, did not pretend to understand the system, butblindly followed the lead of the scholars and their truculent head. And, to those who have had any experience at such hands, it is bitterly plainthat of all merciless cruelty of civilized lands, that of boys undertwenty-five is the most remorseless. 

It is, then, not difficult to understand that, from the first days, Ivanwas in a situation undreamed-of even by his father. In the immediatebeginning Becker, awed by his knowledge of the enormous power wielded byPrince Michael, would have treated Michael's son with some sort ofconsideration. He was soon shown his mistake. The boys he was supposedto teach had none of them, as yet, ever come under the eye of themysterious, hardly-credited "Third Section. " Upon the day followingIvan's arrival, therefore, there was held, in the dormitory inhabited bythe upper ten of the dreaded "first class, " a solemn conclave, headed bythe lords of the school: Sitsky, Sabléf, Osínin, Pryanishikoff, andBlashkov--this last actually a second cousin of Ivan. The decisionresulting from the debate, held when the lower school was at drill, wasspread abroad without delay by certain methods known only to the boys. By nightfall every cadet knew that young Gregoriev's status had beenfixed; and henceforth none would dream of disputing it till the boy inquestion had passed his second year. By the third day the masters hadread and accepted the decree, quietly assigning the new boy to hisdestined oblivion. For Ivan was a Gregoriev, son of a trans-Moskvahouse, and had never even seen the Equerries' Quarter! grandson, moreover, of a creature who had _worked_. Worse yet, he was the son ofwhat was really no more than a police officer. (For, though officialdommeant much in their ranks, the police was beyond the pale of theirbigoted respect. ) Thus it is easy to recognize Ivan's natural place, andwhy he must henceforth regard himself honored if a member of the upperschool so much as addressed to him a command. This much the weekdecided. But it was Sunday night before active persecution began. 

Boys' schools, be they in what country they may, are as much alike asboy nature is alike and unalterable the world over, from age to age. Only the details differ. At Rugby, new boys undergo blanket-tossing. InFrance there is a custom less vigorous though physically more painful. In the Moscow _Corps des Cadets_, in the fifties, matters were as muchmore savage as Russian civilization was, at that day, lower than that ofEngland. In the Kishinaia, then, the popular form of hazing is--orwas--the "circus"; and the pretty game was ordinarily arranged forseveral victims. But Ivan was accorded a distinction, inasmuch as theboys of his form positively refused to soil themselves by contact with arank outsider; and the upper school could not but condone its inferiorsin their aristocratic aloofness. Having, then, but one victim for theevening's sport, it was thought fitting that some unusual climax shouldbe invented for the furtherance of the school ideals. And this touch wasfinally invented by a youth who had just finished a certain forbiddenbook relating to some unspeakable customs of the Orient. 

Ivan's Sunday evening shall know no record here. He bore it, livedthrough it--even infuriated his tormentors by his insistent refusals tocry out or beg for mercy: choosing, instead, meanly to faint just beforethe crucial moment. But though it was a week before he crept shakilyfrom his bed again, there was no inquiry in the school as to the causeof his peculiar illness. Only in secret was some notice taken of theaffair; which had really gone beyond ordinary bounds. Colonel Beckergave Ivan more than one hour of serious consideration; for to him Ivan'sfather was more than a name. And, in the end, the boy was granted whathis mother had hitherto vainly asked: leave to spend thirty-six hours, weekly--from Saturday night to Monday morning--at home, in his mother'scompany. It was a wise decision, and it served a double purpose; for notonly did it remove a sure victim from the band of savages that heldpossession of the school through every weekly holiday, but it gave onemiserable boy just enough respite from his wretchedness to stifle therevelations which time and suffering would otherwise have surelybrought. Even so, at first, Becker trembled lest the terrible Chiefshould be made aware of his son's treatment at that noted school. Butweeks passed and no complaint was made. And thus came Ivan's first steptowards favor. For Becker could not but be thankful for the boy's bravesilence; nor thereafter did he always try to hide that gratitude fromthe unhappiest of his pupils. 

 * * * * *

Such was the beginning of Ivan's school life. It had taken just sevendays to teach him that the curse of his parentage must still be hisheavy burden. He had done infinitely more than was generally required toprove a boy's worthiness for acceptance by his fellows. Not a boy in theschool but had watched his clothes cut to ribbons before them, under theknout. Not a boy but surmised the hideous state of his bruised body. Andyet, not a boy in the school offered the slightest sign of friendliness, even of recognition. Loneliness he had known--was, indeed, to knowagain--but never thereafter the loneliness that he endured in thiscrowded school. 

Of what Ivan bore during his first year in that harsh preparation forhis after life, it would be useless to write. The day's routine was longand hard: its hours from early morning till nine at night; its subjectsthe usual studies, with military drill, tactics, and history. Moreover, at the end of the ordered day there was frequently guard-duty at thedoor of the first form's secret club, which used pretended fear ofdiscovery as a means of keeping some younger boy awake till he shouldfall asleep on his feet, and be carried into the club-room for thepunishment always inflicted for this military crime of "sleeping onduty. " This year the fourth form had one more cause of gratitude for theexistence of Ivan; for he was chosen for this vigil three nights to anyother boy's one. The consequence of this was that, between October andApril, he was in the hospital four times, always owing to an increase inthe low fever induced by physical and mental exhaustion. Through thewinter, Becker had made a few feeble attempts at protection, all ofwhich proved abortive. But finally, in the early spring, noting Ivan'slook of frailty, and fearing a breakdown that must be brought to thenotice of Prince Michael, he took the case in hand vigorously, andprocured for the boy at least unbroken sleep at night, though he couldforce no other consideration from the scornful young brutes towardstheir physically broken, mentally-raging victim. 

It was, for Ivan, an added irony of Fate that, during this long periodof physical strain, the severest he was ever to know, his one hithertounfailing refuge should be denied him. And the trial culminated in ashock as unexpected as it then seemed unendurable. 

For many weeks the boy, while sedulously concealing the facts of hisschool life, had nevertheless wondered that, during his Sundays withher, his mother divined none of his unhappiness. But he himself failedto perceive the burden which that same mother, hitherto as near to himas he to her, was herself bearing. How should he guess that she was atlast obliged to concentrate her every faculty upon herself in order tokeep from him any betrayal of her condition? Ivan had, certainly, morethan once remarked the haggard pallor of her face; or caught her in aninvoluntary movement of pain. There were nights at school when hethought long and anxiously of her. Yet he was thoroughly unpreparedwhen, on the morning of the third of April, he received from her abrief, strained, unnatural note, containing the astounding informationthat she was starting at once, with his aunt, for the Riviera, where shemight remain for some weeks. 

He had the day to ponder over this news: reserving the greater pain ofit for the night: when, happily, he should be unmolested. But he nevercame to this; for, at the end of the evening study-period, he was calledfrom the assembly-hall by no less a person than Colonel Becker himself, at the door of whose dreaded room stood Piotr, white-faced and red-eyed. At his appearance Ivan halted for one, heart-stilling instant. Then hemuttered, in a hoarse, dry voice:

"My mother!--She is dead?"

Piotr slowly shook his head, replying: "Not yet. --They have sent foryou. "

CHAPTER V

DEATH JOY

During that long winter when the mental eyes of Ivan were first openingto the meaning of life and the individual struggles of each to find hisplace in a world apparently unassailable, Ivan's mother, PrincessSophia, slowly, in great anguish of body, was learning a last lesson ofthe master by whom she had never been spared. Through that dark period, though mother and son met weekly, their intercourse, hitherto so full, so unreserved, became inevitably hesitant and broken. Each was bearing aburden which neither was willing to reveal to the other. Ivan, concealing from the tender woman every sign of his persecution at thehands of his companions in the Corps, felt himself constantlytongue-tied before her. And though ordinarily the mother-sense wouldspeedily have penetrated that awkward reserve, Sophia, herself allunaccustomed to deceit, was so fully occupied in hiding every sign ofher own secret, that Ivan's reticence appeared to her only thereflection of her own. It was as natural, then, as it was unfortunate, that these visits, looked forward to by each of them as bright oases inan otherwise treeless desert, should also have brought with them theirquota of discomfort and vain regret. Throughout each week, woman and boyalike hungered for each other. Yet on Sunday night both usually partedwith hearts overflowing with secret remorse at the thought that therewas actual relief in the knowledge that the day was over. Moreover, asthe weeks passed, the Sunday evenings together became shorter and moreshort. Madame Gregoriev, smiling through the agony that yet found placein every line of her face, would confess to fatigue and would resignherself to the hands of the maid whose duties were daily becoming morethose of a nurse, leaving Ivan to the care of the serfs, who, by theirunfeigned delight in his appearance, generally sent him away from theirquarters about midnight in a very cheerful mood. Later, however, throughthe dark hours that followed, Ivan's thoughts instinctively reverted tohis mother, and the strange expression in her face would take asignificance filling his heart with a pain which the morrow's lightcould not banish. 

Months slid by. The Russian New Year came and went. And now, when Ivanreached home on Saturday evening, his mother frequently greeted him fromher bed; and on Sunday would sit up only for an hour or two, in her_chaise-longue_, before the open fire always kept burning in herup-stairs sitting-room, her frail form clad in the loosest of negligées. Still, to all the boy's sad and anxious queries, the reply would be:"Just fatigue, and perhaps a little cold. In a few weeks, you shall seeme quite strong again. Smile for me, Ivan!" And Ivan seemed to acceptthe words. But weekly he went back to his work with something added tothe weight now constantly dragging at his heart. 

Had Ivan guessed half the truth, however: could he have had one glimpseof his mother's reason for her constant "fatigue, " he would have learnedthat the vague disquiet he was bearing was a feather-weight incomparison to the helpless misery of watching and comprehending the slowspread and increase of the most pitiless, direfully cruel, of alldiseases. 

It had been in the very first week of Ivan's life in the Corps thatSophia Ivanovna returned, in a kind of numb haze, from the house of thedoctor she had gone to for examination. She stood alone in her own room, trying to comprehend the fulness of that which had come upon her. Allalone she had made her discovery; and alone had gone to have itverified. But, in spite of everything, realization was difficult: therealization that, turn whither she would, there was upon her--upon thatpoor, tortured breast, the relentless clutch of death. Struggle as shemight, through the ensuing months--the few, few ensuing months, thatclutch must grow tighter and more cruelly tight, until--the end. Duringthe years since her marriage Madame Gregoriev had, more than once, wished--nay, prayed for death. But a hopeless desire and the inevitablereality are generally two widely different things. And the clearestpossible proof of the poignancy of the mental suffering of her past lifelay in the fact that, fully understanding her position, it was a matterof only a few hours before she could accept, with some show oftranquillity, this last incident of, this fitting climax to, her longtragedy. 

From the first, she kept her knowledge to herself. The doctor who hadexamined her had not been requested to take up the case; and as yet, sheasked help of none. It was weeks before old Másha, coming, oneafternoon, into the Princess' rooms with tea, found her mistress on herknees before the ikon, passionately demanding strength for continuedsilence. The old woman, struck suddenly dumb with intuition, waited onlytill the dread name had come from Sophia's lips, and then burst into awild wailing--that long-drawn cry for the dead, characteristic of theRussian peasant. The Princess demanded, implored, finally threatened herold servitor, till the promise of secrecy had been obtained; but sheguessed that Másha had not given it till she had assured herself thatthe disease could not be concealed much longer. 

Hitherto, in that bleak and lonely household, there had been littlecomfort for the woman who knew no hour, no second, free from pain. ButMásha, like many country-bred women, was skilled in the decoction ofthose herbs and simples that seem, at times, more efficacious than morescientific medicines. Moreover, the old woman was passionately devotedto the mistress whom she had tended as a child, and nursed through everyillness of girlhood. Thenceforth Sophia was the recipient of thetenderest care; and the old serf, experimenting, found more than onepreparation which, for a time at least, seemed to draw some of the fieryagony from the poor, disfigured breast. 

As the winter passed, however, and March drew towards its close, thePrincess, wasted almost to a shadow, left her bed no more. Thus at lasther husband awoke to the fact that her illness was no mere "woman'snonsense. " Their first brief interview terminated when, in response tohis direct questions, Sophia simply drew the covering from her breastand let him look upon the hideous source of her pain. The man bent overher, stared for a moment, shuddered, and, turning on his heel, left theroom without a word. Early upon the morning of the following day, thatof March thirty-first, to Sophia's amazed displeasure, the two mosteminent physicians in Moscow met at her bedside. At the conclusion oftheir examination they were ushered below, to the Prince's cabinet, where they gave Michael their decision as to the necessary course ofaction. There must be an immediate operation. That was the one possiblehope. Even so--it was a pity, a very _great_ pity, that the _gnädigeFrau_ had waited so long. By now, every day--almost everyhour--diminished the chance of recovery. 

After this explanation, made by the German doctor and entirelycorroborated by his Russian colleague, there was a silence. PrinceGregoriev sat bent over the table. A grayish tinge, absolutely foreignto it, had overspread his face. His eyes were flaming. His teeth gnawedsavagely at the ends of his mustache. The two physicians waited, considerately, till the lowered head was raised, the eyes lifted:

"There is--no other way? She--she has got to submit to the knife?"

"Gewiss! Nor can we promise--recovery--even so. Without it--two weeks--amonth, perhaps!" he shrugged, helplessly. "You understand, it ismedullary: the most rapid, the most malignant variety of all. It is nota case that promises credit to us. Therefore, if the Herr Graf wouldwish to try another physician, I should be glad that it were so. I wouldresign the case willingly; for this disease gives little satisfaction tous who love our work. "

"At the same time, " broke in Monsieur Petchkoff, the Russian doctor, with some asperity, "we must remind our client, Herr Weimann, thatoperations to-day do not mean what they did before the recent greatdiscovery of anæsthetics. I have been using chloroform now for more thanthree years; and in every case where the heart permits, it hasobliterated entirely the pain of incision. You understand that thepatient may go to sleep in her bed and awaken there again, a few hourslater, without the slightest knowledge that she has ever been removedfrom it. Consider that, your Highness!"

Gregoriev leaped to his feet. "Is it possible? I never believed thosetales. Do you corroborate this statement?" he added, turning to Weimann, who sat approvingly nodding his head. 

At the question he merely raised his shaggy brows, replying: "Withoutdoubt, Herr Graf. Anæsthesia is now used in every enlightened country inthe world. The Herr Doctor has exaggerated its benefits in noparticular. "

Gregoriev sank into his place again with a groan of relief. "Operate, then! Operate at once--to-day, if there be time!"

 * * * * *

Prince Michael's desire, which was, in fact, that of his wife also, since the thing must be gone through, was impractical, owing to the factthat considerable preparatory work was still necessary. On the first dayof the new month, Weimann made an examination of her heart, whichresulted less satisfactorily than he had hoped. Not until evening did hefinally announce his decision that the administration of chloroformmight be made without undue danger. And after this there were still tobe made those preparations necessary for an operation in the palace:Michael absolutely refusing his wife's request that she be taken to theRoyal Hospital. Nor was it till the evening of that day--the second ofApril--that the unhappy lady wrote Ivan her scarcely deceptive letter:an act repellent to her, but insisted upon by Michael, who persisted inmaintaining his belief in her ultimate recovery. With what an agony ofyearning to see her boy, to bid him good-bye, the poor soul hung uponeach painfully scrawled word, only those who have lain under the chillof death can know. From the first she had no hope, and but littledesire, of leaving the dread table alive. Yet she was loath to giveexpression to the doubt that might still be hailed by her husband withhis old, scornful mockery. 

It was the first time, perhaps, that she had misjudged Michael on theside of inhumanity. Scorn for her was gone from him now; and so changedwas he that his very servants could not read him. Was it remorse, oractually some long-latent affection, reawakened under the shadow ofimpending loss, that had brought the haggard lines about his mouth, anddulled the fires of those terrible eyes? Sophia herself asked thatquestion of the darkness, as she lay the long night through, watchingfor what she dreamed of as her last dawn. 

The hour of the operation was fixed for one o'clock on the afternoon ofApril third. By dawn of that day the whole household was astir, gravitating, for the first time in many a year, wholly about the bedroomof the mistress of the house. Madame Gregoriev, lying motionless in thehalf-light of her room during the morning hours, preceding the impendingordeal, was filled with a sense of unreality, of wonder at the stir thatwas suddenly being created about her. For years she had been accustomedto a life of systematic neglect. For months she had borne her bodilytorment silently and without hope of aid. Now, in one day, as it seemed, she had become the centre of a new world. There were two professionalnurses to anticipate her every want, while old Másha, hitherto her oneattendant, cowered snuffling in a dark corner of the room. At herbedside her husband, his black eyes dulled with trouble, sat side byside with Vassily, the brother, whose manner had never before sosoftened in addressing her. And his voice grew husky as he persisted inthe assurances of perfect recovery that he could not himself believe. Lastly, and best of all, Caroline was coming: was, indeed, already onher rapid way. All things had been done for her comfort; yet none ofthem weighed for a moment in the balance with her one, great, unvoiceddesire: the desire to see and talk to her boy before she yielded herselfto that mysterious unconsciousness from which she had not the smallesthope of emerging. But she was now wholly under Michael's sway. Sherealized that he was acting for Ivan's peace of mind: that in so actinghe had himself some hope of her recovery. And, remembering his newconsideration for her, she could not bring herself to dispute him. When, at the hour named, the surgeons and their assistants entered her room, she received the kisses of husband and brother upon an unwrinkled brow;and, as she lifted her head towards the sweet-smelling sponge, there wasa faint smile upon her lips, a gleam of relief in her tired eyes. 

Vassily Blashkov and his black brother-in-law waited together atSophia's bedside till her unconsciousness was complete; and then bothstood, reverently, while the limp body was carried from the room. Forthe first time in their lives these two utterly selfish men looked intoeach other's eyes with but one comprehensive thought, which was all foranother. Each man was suddenly white with unwonted feeling; for therewas something in the pose of that helpless form which brought home, witha poignant stab, a sudden realization of her neglected life. 

Still acting upon common impulse the two presently descended, side byside, to Michael's official room, where, on the table, Piotr had placeda bottle of sherry, some glasses, and a plate of biscuits. Before thesethe two seated themselves; and, as the first glow of the wine began tocourse through them, they fell into a low-voiced conversation; for itwas a period of strain so great that any possibility of forgetfulnesswas grasped, eagerly. Of Sophia, however, neither could speak; and theirthoughts fell naturally upon that which was dearest to her: Ivan: thenephew to whom the uncle was almost a complete stranger. And it was tothis man whom for years he had hated so roundly, that Michael revealed, for the only time in his life, his feeling for the boy whom he had sotardily and slightly acknowledged. 

"You--haven't told him, I understand?" Blashkov began, in a low tone. 

"Not yet. If--if she comes out--he may see her. The anxiety will be lessfor him. --She--she's his whole life, here. "

"And he hers, I imagine?"

"It's true. --I--I haven't counted with either of them. --I never tried. "

This was all. The long, almost unbearable pause that followed was brokenby a commonplace remark, and the conversation kept in that vein bymutual consent. For, when the inner life is throbbing fast and strong, intimate expression becomes impossible. And above these two men, chatting about the trivial things of their existence, hung a blackshadow of dread: a strain of waiting which, minute by minute, grew moretense. 

An hour had passed, and the ears of both were strained for the faintestsound in the corridor, when there came an unhoped-for break. Less thanforty-eight hours after the first news had reached her in Petersburg, Caroline Dravikine entered the Gregoriev house in Moscow. Piotr, hisface alight with relief, showed her into the room where brother andbrother-in-law sat together. There she flung off her wraps, commandedtea, and exerted all her power towards distracting the thoughts of thosetwo men who showed not half her courage in the face of a calamity whichcould touch neither of them as it must touch her, who had kept the onegreatly unselfish affection of her life for the sister now lying at thepoint of death above her. 

A second hour slipped round, and the momentary relief of Caroline'sarrival passed. The darkening room had grown silent again, and the senseof oppression was becoming unendurable to the three of them, when one ofthe nurses slipped into the room to say:

"The Princess Gregoriev is in her bed. You can see her if you wish. "

A woman's whisper broke the twilight: "Thank God!--Thank God!--She isconscious? She is safe?"

"She cannot be conscious for some hours yet, Madame. --The operation hasbeen a terribly difficult one. Her Ladyship's condition is critical. "

Silence. Then a faint groan from Michael's chair. 

There followed six hours of waiting, watching, hoping, despairing. Thedeadened consciousness trembled on the edge of the great void; andneither doctor, nurse, nor relative left the still room in which thesoul still delayed. Now and again, after the administration of somestimulant, one of the three, Michael, Vassily, or Caroline would whispera question, hoping always for an answer suggestive of hope. But thereply was always the same:

"We cannot tell. --Wait. "

It was nine o'clock at night before the body stirred naturally for thefirst time, and a long, fluttering sigh broke from the pallid lips. FromCaroline came a faint cry of joy; and then Sophia's great eyes opened, languidly, and her look was turned upon her sister. 

"Mother!" she whispered, smiling. 

"No, Sophie!--No!"

But Weimann was at her elbow. "Do not contradict!" he murmured. Then heturned to Michael. 

"You have a son?" he said, quietly. 

"Yes!--You mean--" Michael's face had not held this look before. 

"He should be here, " said the doctor, steadily. "I think she will knowyou all--yet. "

Prince Gregoriev bowed his head upon his breast, and stole from theroom. Ten minutes later Piotr was speeding across Moscow in his master'sbrougham, towards the _Corps des Cadets_. 

 * * * * *

Of that long drive homeward across the city, Ivan's only memory was of along blur of pain that culminated, as they halted at the portals, in asudden burst of realization. His eyes, tear-shrouded as they were, sought the well-known window on the second floor from which his mother'sface had so often greeted him or smiled down a farewell for one moreweek. --Yes, the window was alight! Then--then she was still--Great God!How did human senses bear such grief as was swelling through him now?

Within the gloomily lighted hall Ivan found himself, quite unexpectedly, face to face with his father, who was apparently awaiting him. Untilthis moment Ivan had forgotten the very existence of Prince Michael; butnow he was startled at the drawn and haggard face that presented itselfin the lamp-light, as his father seized him by the arm, and, whisperinga few words of the explanation that brought Ivan's heart into histhroat, drew him swiftly up-stairs, to the threshold of her room, andthere turned, leaving him alone. 

Five minutes before the priest, his last rites accomplished, had passedout of the doorway on which the boy now halted, straining his eyes intothe room beyond. He saw a bed surrounded by silent figures; and onlythen became conscious of the meaning of the sound that had filled hisears since his coming: the high, long-drawn, wailing of Sophia's piteousstruggle for breath. Immediately over her hung Weimann and one of thenurses, just finishing an injection of strychnine. At the foot of thebed sat Madame Dravikine, white, silent, dry-eyed. Across the room, before the largest of the three ikons, knelt Sonya and old Másha, praying, silently. And upon them all, even the deathlike figure on thebed, was an air of listening, of waiting, of expectancy, which waspresently relieved by the apparition of the tall, lean, boyish figure, who wavered for one moment, and then came hurriedly forward. 

Ivan was scarcely conscious of his movements. His limbs were trembling, his hands were icy cold and damp with sweat, his tightened throat seemedas if it must break the drawn muscles in its straining. But his greatblack eyes shone tearless as he walked straight to the bed and stoodgazing down upon the quivering face upturned to him. Then, after amoment of preparation, the dreadful breathing ceased, and a faint, shaking voice replaced it:

"Ivan! Dearest! You have come!"

Taking his mother's transparent hands with a movement of infinitegentleness into his own, Ivan dropped upon his knees by the bedside, histwo eyes still fixed longingly, hungrily, upon the beloved face. For aninstant he was conscious that others in the room were stealing away, andpresently, save for one nurse, he was alone with her who, sixteen yearsbefore, had brought him into the world. 

In the silence that surrounded him Ivan felt his very soul pierced by amedley of unknown emotions, chief of which was the sense that he stoodalone and helpless before a separation that he could not bear. Andpresently that dread was voiced for him, in the strange, weak, tendertones of his mother's voice:

"I must leave you soon now, Ivan. "

At last a sob tore its way through his rigid throat, and his answer wasgiven in a passionate whisper: "No, mother! No!"

"Dear, my body is going. You could not wish to keep me always. And I amso glad, Ivan! So glad! My own mother has been here, at my side, allday. So, then, I shall come and comfort you--at least at the first, while it is most sad for you. "

"'At first!' Do you think I can stop wanting you, grieving foryou--ever?"

She could smile, that dying one, in her great wisdom, at this passionaterepudiation of the balm of time. To her, it appeared, the secrets of thedead had been already revealed. "You are still very young, dear boy. None of us of the world can escape this pain of parting. 'Death is thelast enemy that shall be overcome. ' The time is not long, Ivan, beforeyou will take on man's full estate. Shall you remember then what I, yourmother, have suffered--through a man?--through your father, Ivan?"

His expression turned to one of surprise. Never had she spoken, evenindirectly, on this subject to him before. But he answered at once:"Yes, mother. I know. I shall remember. "

"Ah, yes--keep that remembrance--all of it! You will be a man of power, of influence. When you marry a good woman, Ivan, then think of me mostof all. You have in you Gregoriev blood, and all Gregorievs have beenlike your father. You must change that, break that tradition. Will youremember? Will you--pro--"

The speech had been a long one, and, syllable by syllable, her voice hadbeen growing weaker. Now, with a word half uttered, she settled back, gasping violently, her eyes half shut. Ivan started to his feet; butalready the nurse was by the bed, forcing cognac and water down thePrincess' throat. Ivan stood still, tightly clasping one of those chillyhands. He was waiting anxiously for her to speak again; for to him theirtalk was not finished. His mother, however, seemed to think differently. Her hand tightened upon his, but she had the air of one satisfied, content with all things. The boy, watching her, understood that shedesired nothing more. 

Presently the others stole softly in again, and Sophia drew her sister, by a look, to the bed, beside Ivan, and made one more effort of speech:

"Katrisha--remember--Ivan. He is--mine. When he--goes--toPetersburg--care for him--for--my sake!"

"Ah, yes, Moussia! Yes! Ivan shall be cared for--well!" murmuredCaroline, brokenly. 

Sophia, her dim eyes resting on them both, smiled. 

In the midst of this came an interruption. The smile vanished, and agleam of dread crossed the face of the Princess, who had started forwarda little, and seemed to listen. Indeed, there was the sound of a muffledtread approaching the door. Another instant, and Michael, entering, wentto the bedside, and stood looking down upon his wife. White and strangewas his face, and Madame Dravikine perceived that his hands weretrembling. She saw also, however, how Sophia drew away from him, how thelabor of her breathing was increased. Every one in the room started whenthe dying woman's right hand was raised from the sheet and pointed atthe dark and powerful figure bending near. 

"You--who have ruined my life--go! Let me die--at last--in peace!" shesaid, all the silent torture of her wifehood sounding through thewavering, feeble voice. 

Michael Gregoriev, with a violent start, drew back. He passed his handonce across his face; then, straightening suddenly, and without anotherlook at the figure on the bed, he turned and strode from the room, leaving the door open. 

Behind him, silence fell again. Sophia's breathing and the faint mutterof old Másha's prayers mingled with the wailing of the wind as it rushedround the corner of the house, and the pelt of freezing rain on thewindows. In the half-lighted room no one either moved or spoke. Minutespassed. Half an hour. Ivan, standing on his feet, grew desperatelynervous and weary. Madame Dravikine, seated in a corner, leaned back inher chair and let her heavy eyelids fall. 

Presently, out of the night, came the voice of Ivan Veliki, from thedistant Kremlin, booming the eleventh hour. As the last stroke trembledthrough the room and echoed into silence, Sophia Gregoriev liftedherself suddenly to a sitting posture. Her eyes widened, joyously, uponsome distant scene, and a cry of ecstatic wonder broke from her lips. Then, in a breath, the divine light faded. The lips fell apart. It washer son who caught her as she fell. 

Yet death held something still in store. Minutes later, as Ivan liftedhimself heavily from his kneeling-place beside the bed, and gazed, through tear-filmed eyes, upon the face of his dead, there broke fromhim a little cry, a cry of joy. In its passage to freedom his mother'ssoul had stamped her visage with its state. From that face the lines ofmany years of anguish, mental and physical, had fallen away, leaving theflesh as smooth and fair as that of a girl. The eyes were lightlyclosed; and, most beautiful of all, her lips had slowly spread into asmile of such transfigured radiance as sent a thrill of intense andwistful longing through the hearts of those that looked on her. 

The tragedy of Sophia Gregoriev was at an end; and none seeing her coulddoubt that she had found in the Unknown Land ample reason andcompensation for her life on earth. 

CHAPTER VI

NATHALIE

There is a certain maxim, unpleasant as it is prevalent, indulged inwith great frequency by a certain class of stoical sophists, to theeffect that there are many sorrows in life more difficult to bear thanthat separation from our nearest brought by death. But those men--andespecially the women--who have experienced sorrow of both varieties, donot use that proverb. 

In his after life Ivan Gregoriev was called upon to bear many burdens ofgrief; but none of them ever caused him to waver in the assurance thatthe death of his mother had brought him the bitterest suffering he couldbe called upon to endure. Before this time--for many recent weeks--hehad believed himself cognizant of most forms of unhappiness. So, in ablind, insensate fashion, he was. But the night on which his mother lefthim opened his eyes to that land of grief where consolation waits ontime; it shook from him the last vestige of morbidity; and, lastly, itbrought him, too, in generous measure, perception of those beauties ofthought and action to be gained by one who accepts his loss unselfishly, in a true and humble spirit. 

During the three days that passed before the funeral, Ivan, his braindulled and heavy with a kind of morbid despair, haunted the room wherehis mother lay, surrounded with candles the lights of which illuminedand intensified the smile of transfiguration still remaining on herpeaceful face. To the boy, waiting and watching dumbly, it seemedintolerable that the stillness of that sacred room should be disturbedby the exits and entrances of strangers. In the beginning, he resentedeven the arrival from her Petersburg convent of his cousin Nathalie; andfor the many members of the Blashkov family, distant relatives or mereacquaintances, who throughout her life had left Sophia to bitterloneliness, and came now to stare upon her empty frame, the son felt ahatred too fierce to be expressed in words. They, however, neither knewnor would have cared to learn how the boy heard their every wordconcerning him and his with wrath unspeakable, and shuddered with miseryat their heartless insolence. Nevertheless, the wretchedness hiddenunder his set, strained mask, was divined by his aunt. Thus, she, forthe time much softened by her grief, and feeling also a good deal ofcuriosity concerning the inner nature of this youth of the haunted eyes, presently sought, by every art of tact and seeming understanding, toopen his heart to tears. The fact that she at length succeeded, must beput down to her lasting credit; it having been a deed directly opposedto the traits of her rather cold nature. 

Upon the evening after the funeral Madame Dravikine, intensely weariedby the long walk to and from the cemetery, was lying on her couch, eyesclosed, her head aching slightly. Nevertheless, when there came a timidknock upon her door, she answered with a summons to enter, and Ivan, responding, went to her impetuously, yielded his hands to her clasp, andallowed himself to be drawn to his knees, at her side, there to listento gentle words about his mother's love for him, and her ambitions forhis future, till she had pierced through the armor of his reserve, andhe burst into a storm of sobs the violence of which at first frightenedher. 

It was the one possible means of relief, however; and Madame Dravikine, wise in her generation, let him weep his bitter revolt away. This lastednearly an hour, and both were exhausted by the time the tears hadceased, and only an occasional, spasmodic sob gave evidence of the stormthat had passed. It was at this juncture--Ivan upon the floor, halfsitting, half kneeling, Caroline's arms clasping him close--that thedoor of the room opened again, quietly, and Nathalie appeared. At sightof the two she halted, uncertainly. But her mother, gently releasing theembarrassed boy, bade her come in; nor when, an instant later, he madethe move, would she permit Ivan to go. It was, perhaps, unfair to herthat this kindly act of hers should have borne, for all three of them, consequences so momentous, and, to the Countess, so unwelcome. Yet itwas certainly this evening which saw the beginning of the single realpassion of Ivan's life. Thereafter, in that little gallery of mentalportraits carried by each of us in his intimate heart, the beloved formof his dead mother was given a companion picture: that of a girl's face, warm and living, upon which he often gazed with an ardor, a devotion, alonging, rather unboyishly sincere. 

Certainly the picture thus enshrined was one not unworthy of strongadmiration. For even at fourteen Nathalie Dravikine was very beautiful, in a delicate, flower-like way. Her complexion was clear and pale, theblood which ran beneath it showing only under the stress of someemotion, when it would suffuse her whole face with waves of exquisitecolor. Her delicate head bore a weight, almost too great, of fine, blue-black hair, just now hanging in a heavy plait to her knees. Hereyes, large and velvety as Ivan's own, were, however, of a shadeindescribable, chameleon-like: one day varying between beryl andaqua-marine, anon of a light hazel, and finally, in moments ofexcitement, grief, or joy, of a deep, baffling black. Hitherto, Ivan hadbeen undecided about their color; but to-night, as he saw them runtheir gamut from light to that tender dark, he felt a strange, quiveringhalf-fear, half-joy, stirring his heart; and in one moment it had becomeimpossible for him to look her in the eyes again and retain any sort ofcomposure. Moreover, as he sat, red-eyed and conscious, in a chairbetween aunt and cousin, it seemed to him as if some one were pouring acool balm over the burning wound within him: as if, already, hismother's strange promise were finding fulfilment, and she herself, orher fair spirit, stood at his side, her gentle hand upon his shoulder, asmile of the old, loving companionship in her deep eyes. He did not knowwhether it were minutes or hours before, with a long sigh, he rose, kissed his aunt, drew back with flaming face from Nathalie's tentativeadvance, but finally, with throbbing heart, just touched her cheek inthe usual place, and then ran off, glad of the darkness in the passageoutside. Unlike the traditional young lover, however, he was notdestined to spend the dark hours in waking dreams of his love. Nay, thepretty child did him better service. That night, for the first time inninety-six weary hours, he slept, soundly and dreamlessly, till Alexeicame to call him, when he rose with a feeling of great strangeness, ofirrevocable change, upon him, as he faced a final joyless day. 

There was no help for it. He must return, that afternoon, to the Corps;where now there would be no weekly breaks in his monotony ofunhappiness. So much he learned in a brief, uncomfortable interview withhis father, immediately after breakfast. And when he was dismissed, heunderstood that it was Prince Michael's farewell to him for anindefinite period: a fact which troubled him very little in itself, however; the less so since, when he reached his room again, he found inhis hand an envelope containing a princely sum of pocket-money--whichwas to last him through the spring. Wearily and drearily, however, theboy, with the aid of his serf, packed the few garments he had broughtwith him, and then went off to hang about the closed door of his aunt'ssuite of rooms, in which, also packing, was Nathalie: that strange, newNathalie, born for him fifteen hours before. 

He had reached a great depth of unhappiness when suddenly, aboutnoon-time, the gate to fairy-land opened and he was admitted byCelestine, who had been sent, indeed, to seek him. In a few, whirlingmoments, he found himself eating an early _déjeuner à la fourchette_with his aunt and cousin, after which he drove with them to thePetersburg station, and there, upon the noisy, crowded platform, reachedhis empyrean. 

Madame Dravikine and her maid were in the carriage reserved for them, arranging their bags and rugs. But Nathalie had remained--ah, was it notof her own choice?--outside, for three minutes longer. Their few wordswere as simple and as awkward as inexperience could make them; but theywere afterwards gone over, a hundred times, at least, by Ivan, who, ateach repetition, became more impressed by the brilliance, the wit, the_savoir-faire_, the repose of Mademoiselle Nathalie's brief andstumbling formalities. Then--then Madame Dravikine was calling herdaughter. A whistle blew. The second bell rang loudly. Officials jangledhastily down the platform; and Ivan, his heart throbbing in his throat, suddenly caught his cousin's slender figure in his arms, held her forone endless instant, found her lips with his own, and found himself, five minutes later, gazing blindly down an empty track, while thefootman at his side stared at him in stupid wonderment. So, coloringwith shame, joyously angry, broken by the long prospect of ensuing griefand longing--not for one being loved and lost, but for two--he enteredthe carriage which was to carry him across Moscow, from heaven to hell:from the Petersburg station to the stone buildings of the _Corps desCadets_, where, in the ensuing weeks, Ivan Gregoriev, already an adeptin enduring the various forms of school-boy misery, was about to beginupon a lesson before which more than one grown man would have visiblyshrunk; and under which Ivan himself, before it was finished, had becomeappalled at his own capacity for suffering. 

 * * * * *

During every age of humanity, in every state and stage of humancivilization, there have been certain great-souled beings who, for thesake of a totally inadequate reward, have delivered themselves over, bound and helpless, into the hands of a task-master severe, relentless, all-demanding, but wise and just beyond every other teacher of mankind. The greater number of these daring persons have, in the end, accomplished their schooling, done their tasks, and reached their goal;because, once in the toils, they must needs go forward, or die. A veryfew of these toilers, Hindoos ascending towards Arahatship, Christiansaspiring to certain heaven by way of certain martyrdom, have been givenbeforehand an exact estimate of the price they were to pay. But allothers, the vast majority of those demanding of nature her divinestgifts, have mortgaged themselves blindly for an amount, and at a rate ofinterest, unknown, undreamed of. Of these, Ivan was one. At the age ofsixteen he first felt his power, made his demand. Consciously orunconsciously--probably both--he cried to Fate: "Behold me! I hold amessage for mankind! The Spirit of Music will deign to make use of me asher instrument. I am summoned to the world-service. Give me, then, thatwhich shall make me great enough to bring this gift of mine to itshighest issue, that my mistress may find her priest worthy of acclaimand of advancement!"

This is a cry that Fate is bound to answer, for it is the cry ofassurance. Hearing his words, the Great One stood before the boy andconsidered him thoughtfully. It may be that he was given secret warningof the meaning of his demand. This it is not for us to know. But, knowing or unknowing, he repeated his cry, and was answered. There andthen, with this mysterious, perverse wisdom, his task-master began histraining, blinding the eyes of the pupil to all save the few immediatesteps along the steep road that lay before, permitting him to advanceonly step by step, under her guidance. Ivan yielded himself as clay tothose powerful hands; but the clay was pure, and, because of its youth, more pliable than are those who know themselves only in later years. Andnow, had he wished it, his master would not have let him go. 

Poor Ivan! My poor hero! How was he lashed through that long spring, andthe summer that he spent alone at ghost-haunted Klin, where every cornerof house and garden spoke to him of his mother. How pitilessly was hedragged through depths of grief and solitude and hopeless longing; tillhe stumbled, half fainting, deep in the slough of despair! Hopeless andheart-sick, forgetting, and, he believed, forgotten by, every livingjoy, he fought his battle of temperament hand to hand, imagining everycontest lost. Nothing of his past, his present or his future, was clearbefore him. He was as one crying in the wilderness; and no echo of ananswer caught his ear. So numb was he from emotional experience by thesummer's end, that, in the second week of September, he returned toMoscow for his second winter in the Corps, with hardly more than a dulland throbbing sense of dread. 

The cold weather set in early that year. October and November passed ina whirl of powdery snow and winds that cut through the heaviest furs. Asthe time of Christmas fasts and feasts drew on, Ivan began to long forwhat he believed would not be granted him--the spending of his holidayweek in comparative freedom at home. He was, however, too proud to begsuch permission; and not one word from Prince Michael did he receive. Itwas, then, not till the very hour that his companions were gayly rushingoff to their various conveyances of departure, that Ivan, standingruefully in the snow-filled court-yard, perceived Piotr tramping throughthe outer gate, looking about him, undecided as to the right entrance. 

That night Ivan slept beneath his father's roof for the first time innine months; and in the gray of early morning there came to him an ideaof radiant promise. The pocket-money sent him in September--five hundredrubles, the existence of which his companions had fortunately neversurmised, remained almost untouched. Ivan was extravagant only in thepurchase of music-paper and harmony-books, which are not matters ofgreat cost. Why, then, should he not drive to-day to the Tverskaia, andthere select Christmas presents for those few to whom it would be adelight to give? The custom, not at that day so prevalent in Russia asnow, was still by no means unusual. And though Piotr and Alexei and oldMásha, besides, as a matter of duty, his father, were the names onIvan's written list, they were all of them meaningless compared withthat one gift for her for whom no gift in the world could besufficiently fine or costly. 

Through that whole morning he dragged the sleigh and patient Alexei upand down the Tverskaia, while, the other presents long since selected, he went from shop to shop, dismayed anew at every place by the priceasked for those gems which alone seemed fitting for the object of hisgift. Still, in the end, he was comparatively satisfied; nor was hischoice one likely to displease any feminine soul the world over. Forthe little, pearl-studded bracelet that lay in a blue-velvet case in thebreast-pocket of Ivan's coat was, considering the boy's inexperience, inastonishingly appropriate taste; and well calculated to recall him tothe mind of the girl of whom he had dreamed through nine long months. 

The remainder of the day belonged to the gods; for Ivan managed todevote more than two hours in the penning of a moderately long, ratherstiff little letter addressed to his cousin Nathalie, at the CatherineInstitute for the Daughters of Nobility, in Petersburg. Moreover, thisdone, there was still the bracelet to be wrapped, tied and stamped. Then, after his return from the nearest official registry, thereremained the dear delight of dusk-dreams, which, to-day, concerned theprobable reception of his gift, the reading of his letter, and, climaxof climaxes, the probability of an acknowledgment!

Ivan's holiday week passed slowly, and there came no word fromPetersburg. On each of the last three mornings he rose tremulous withhope; on each of the nights retired praying for a speedy morrow. Butinstead of any joy, these days brought him only unexpected trials. Hisfather, it seemed, had suddenly become much interested in his son'sstraight, strong presence, and took opportunity to keep him, for longperiods every day, in his company, discussing with him the details ofhis life at the Corps, and the possibilities of the future. Eachconference brought only strengthened conviction of his father'sinsistence upon a military-diplomatic career for him, and of thefutility of the slightest hope of leading that musician's life for whichhe had been created. To-day, the least suggestion of his secret desiresmight bring upon him a storm which would, then and there, foreverannihilate them. At this day his own, spiritual guide had become a thingof little importance, in Ivan's mind, compared with the relentlessstrength which his father could exhibit at an instant's warning. And, because he had not yet learned that supreme faith in destiny to which heafterwards did attain, Ivan carried this curious trouble with himthrough many a long day, nor cast it wholly off till the world hadchanged for him. 

On the day after New Year's Ivan returned drearily to the Corps, where, after a week of aimless dejection, that institute, following itsinvariable custom, brought him an unlooked-for blow. It was in the formof a small packet, bearing the Petersburg mark, which, on opening, hefound to contain a little pearl-studded bracelet, and a note that ran asfollows:

 "MY DEAR IVAN MIKHAILOVITCH, --The mother-superior of the Catherine Institute has forwarded to me a gift and a note designed by you for your cousin Nathalie. 

 "I very much regret that you should have made such a mistake as to think that little girls either receive jewelry from any persons other than their parents, or, indeed, at my daughter's age, receive it at all. Nor do the pupils of the Institute accept communications from any persons but those whose names are upon a list prepared by the parents of the inmate. 

 "Wishing you the compliments of the season, and health under the blessing of your patron saint, accept, my dear nephew, the considerations of my sincere regard. 

 "CAROLINE IVANOVNA DRAVIKINE. "

Ivan read this short missive till he had it by rote. At each repetitionit struck him as more cutting, more cruel, more unjust. His aunt hadcertainly intended a rebuke; but she hardly realized either theover-sensitiveness of Ivan's nature or the extent of his boyish feelingfor his cousin, whom he concluded to be responsible, by someunfathomable pique, for his humiliating discomfiture. 

As a matter of actual fact, Nathalie had never received either letter orgift. She, like Ivan, had left her school during Christmas week to spendthe festival with her father and mother. It was not till two days afterthe departure of Mademoiselle Dravikine from the institute that thepacket and the letter from Moscow had been placed in the hands of themother-superior. That worthy woman, examining the list of her pupil'scorrespondents, found upon it but one person from Moscow--Madame laPrincesse Gregoriev, lately deceased, whose name she now took theopportunity of erasing from the authorized list. This done, it remainedfor her to ponder upon the subsequent conclusion of this very unusualincident. Undoubtedly something must be done, if not with the letter atleast with the packet, which, even to her unworldly eyes, had about it asuggestion of gold and gems that could not but bring a flutter ofinterest to a heart which, long as it had been consecrated to unworldlythings, was still of the eternal feminine. It was not till the good, stupid soul had resorted to earnest prayer, that she hit upon theinspiration of casting all responsibility upon the capable shoulders ofher pupil's mamma, the worshipful Countess Dravikine. 

This august lady, though it did not occur to her to seek council withthe Most High, found adequate means of disposing of the undesirablegift. It was a matter of considerable satisfaction to her that Nathaliehad not been made cognizant of the little affair. Yet the watchfulmother would have been not a little amazed could she have read thedepths of her demure daughter's mind, and found there a vague butunquestionable disappointment at having in so many months receivedneither word nor message from her Moscow cousin. It was odd that MadameDravikine should not have realized, by this time, that her daughter wasthe child of her own heart: and, since her childhood, Caroline Ivanovnahad certainly never failed to recognize the least of her own conquests. Was it possible that the woman now high in the favor of a second reign, should have a dunce for a daughter? Yet the mother would probably havefelt something other than satisfaction had she suspected how keenlyMademoiselle Nathalie had studied her tact and her tactics. It might beflattery of the sincerest order; but it must, nevertheless, prove rathertoo trying for comfort. 

It had been in the August of the year 1843 that the court journal ofPetersburg announced, at the head of its budget from Tsarskoë-Selo, atwhich fashionable resort the Dravikines were wont to spend part of eachsummer, the birth of a daughter to the popular and fascinating Countess, Caroline Ivanovna. Within the month there began to pour in upon thatlady a flood of congratulations which, upon the occasions of the firstcalls, were astutely turned to tactful condolences, it being at lengthunderstood that, while the Count was satisfied with the sex of hischild, the Countess daily vibrated between rage and tears that sheshould not have given her house an heir. And since it was unquestionablymadame who ruled the family, young Mademoiselle Nathalie, despite herremarkable eyes, her curling black hair and her rose-leaf skin, came tospend her babyhood in the care of the Dravikine serfs; until at the ageof six she talked like a kitchen-maid, and had the manners of astable-boy--or a Grand-Duke. 

Now, in the autumn of 1849, Count Dravikine, whose promotions came aboutas regularly as his wife's allowance was paid, had just been createdAssistant Minister of Public Works; and the dignity thereby superinducedin him was in exact proportion to the height of his upward step. Upon aNovember afternoon, then, as his Excellency was returning from theCouncil, he came suddenly upon his daughter, standing in the court-yardof his house, bare-headed, arms akimbo, feet spread apart in theattitude of a jockey, her white bonnet thrown upon the muddy flagsbefore her, her shrill voice raised to a scream, as she pelted herhelpless nurse with a string of oaths that would have done credit to hisIron Majesty, all for presuming to interrupt her game within doors inorder to take her for the prescribed daily walk in the gardens of theTauride. 

Count Dravikine, his eyes narrowing with anger, approached the furiouschild, lifted her, now kicking frantically, in two powerful arms, carried her straight to his wife's boudoir, and flung her before hermother. Then, in a voice that Caroline had heard only twice before, heexpressed his opinion of the up-bringing of his child, finishing withcertain forceful suggestions of change for the future. 

Countess Caroline listened without a word; but when her husband lefther, he was well aware that his orders would be obeyed to the letter. The Countess, indeed, respected her partner and had continued to obeyhis rare commands simply because she was aware of the existence of thatvery voice and manner. And from that hour the education of her tomboybecame with her a matter of considerably greater moment than theplanning of the winter's campaign, or the choice of a costume for thefirst court ball of the season. 

It followed that Mademoiselle Nathalie passed through two extremelytrying years. At the end of them, however, she was a child transformed. No one now could possibly mistake her for a boy. She could read andwrite, spell fairly, had some knowledge of arithmetic and theconjugation of _Amo_: and, finally, her knowledge of intricate profanityhad materially lessened. Nowadays, when she was left alone in her rage, her most forceful expressions seemed to be "_Dieu de Dieu de Dieu!_" or"_Sapr-r-risti!_" of her mild little tutor or her more vigorous Frenchmaid. 

In spite of this conventional training, Nathalie, whose temperamentcontained a strong dash of masculinity, was quite eleven years oldbefore she began to turn her vivid imagination to dreams of distantdébutantism or still remoter officers, who, in the most brilliant ofuniforms, should appear at miraculous moments in her career, bringingshame and jealousy to armies of ill-mannered rivals. After the firstthree months in the Catherine Institute, this style of amusement alsochanged, and she was overcome by a religious mania which, beingencouraged on every hand, might possibly have become really dangerous. It was by finally emerging from it unscathed, and having, at the age ofthirteen years and six months, resolved herself into an agreeably normalyoung person whose quiet manners covered a swift and keenly femininebrain, that Nathalie Dravikine proved herself worthy of her mother'ssteel. 

This, indeed, Countess Caroline came herself to perceive. After theirlong winter's separation, during those few days together in thesorrowing house of Gregoriev, during the April of 1857, mother anddaughter came closer together than ever before. Madame Dravikine wassoftened by grief; and the consolation she found in her daughter'spresence was as great as it was unexpected. Nathalie's tenderness andgentleness were certainly traits of the Dravikines, rather than of theBlashkov family. But Caroline, absorbed in memories of her belovedsister, failed either to analyze these, or to pay much heed to the twoor three brief scenes between her girl and Ivan, which should have beensummarily checked in their infancy. As it was, Mademoiselle Nathaliegained some relief from gloom and loneliness in the open admiration ofher cousin; and, after the first day of novelty, found herself taking aquivering delight in this, her first affair. 

The little climax of it all, that five minutes on the platform of thePetersburg station, which ended in a most uncousinly kiss, flamedscarcely less hot in the memory of the maiden than in that of Ivan. Nathalie carried back with her into the gray Petersburg Institute such ahost of flagrant dreams as kept a dozen chums about her through the longtwilights of as many afternoons. For the damsel was an erratic priestessof Eros; and, at this dream-age, she and her comrades gave to thetechnique of forthcoming flirtation a patient analysis that promisedadequate devastation among the courtier army awaiting their acknowledgedyoung-ladyhood. 

Thus comes it that we take a final glance through two childishprison-houses, in far-separate Russian cities, wherein a youth and amaiden lie nightly dreaming the same dreams: one of them a spiritalready bonded to the service of mind under the whip of circumstance:destined to storm rocky heights, from which hard-won eminences he shallcommand great views of sweeping plains and far-off mountain ranges; theother a pretty chrysalis on the eve of her change into a butterfly ofbutterflies; who is, nevertheless, to attempt flights overhigh andoverfar for her frail wings; venturing to unfriendly lands whence shemust return with frayed and tired pinions and a bruised and bleedinglittle soul. And their two destinies, so divergent, are yet fated, everand again, in the swift swinging round their orbits, to approach, touch, and bound away again in opposite directions, strive though they may tomaintain for a while some parallel course. 

Kinder, most surely, just to leave them there: well-guarded children, walled securely away from the black, bleak world; oblivious of allthings save the white innocency of their dreams of first, most fragile, high-romantic love. 

CHAPTER VII

SPRING AND THE ROSE

The summer of 1860 found Ivan Gregoriev at the end of an experience solong, so difficult, so seemingly unendurable, that, up to the last fewmonths of its continuance, he had never indulged in any anticipations ofits conclusion. Like all things, however, his four years' battle camefinally to an end. One, two, three, four: despair, unhappiness, resignation, and, lastly, some sort of authority as the recognizedleader in his work, at least, of the grandiloquent first form: so passedthe years of his cadetship, till, in the June of 1860, he graduated, honorably, and went off to spend the summer at Klin in his own fashion, giving very little thought to that impending commission which was onceagain to reorder his existence. Many were the pleasures possible to himnow in that quiet spot. Some part of gilded Moscow--the very best of theclubs, would have opened to him had he displayed any passion forbaccarat, or the kindred games indulged by the vast majority of hisclass. Cared he naught for these, there was yet another, phase ofmannish existence to which he might agreeably be introduced. But whenaspiring sycophants, members of the great mass of impecunious people of"family, " found that this eccentric son of Prince Michael failed toappreciate the charms of a single member of the opera ballet (nowindulging in the delights of their summer vacation, and expending partof their savings of fifteen rubles a week upon champagne suppers orcoaching-parties to the various fashionable suburbs), they left himdisgustedly to his own devices: which consisted in pouring over theorchestro-harmonical works of Monsieur Berlioz; and evolving strangeprogressions upon his new Érard. 

Meantime, behold Prince Michael, alone in his sanctum, diligentlystudying the hieroglyphics on his map--of which the last corner, underthe heading of "Alexander II. , " was gradually filling--and otherwiseworking most zealously towards a new end. Nor was zeal unnecessary; forit took him four months to make a certain lofty nobleman see theunavoidable consequences of the translation and publication of a certainportion of that map. It was October before a peremptory telegram broughtIvan, with all his paraphernalia (consisting principally of much-wornmusical scores and a considerable pile of crude manuscript-music), backto Konnaia Square. That night the young man slept once more in his boy'sroom in the west wing; and nine o'clock next morning found him, for thefirst time in his life, in his father's innermost cabinet, facing thepowerful form and the difficult eyes of Prince Michael. 

The interview was a long one, but contained little repetition, and madegood use of every minute of its three hours. Ivan's whole problematicalfuture was laid before him, clearly and in detail, as it had beenconstructed, during years of consideration, in his father's brain. Itwas the one plan of Michael Gregoriev's life which was destined to provean absolute waste of energy. Still, there were to be two years of itliterally fulfilled, wherefore we touch upon its preliminaries. Moreover, as Prince Michael spoke plainly, so we; though Ivan expendedlittle amazement on the revelation, and appreciated remarkably little ofthe powerful influence that had been already brought to bear on hisunimportant behalf. Michael himself was keenly aware that, even in theface of his map, he dared attempt nothing more till he had accumulatedat least another twenty-four months of--um--ah--inner official history. But, for the present, he was satisfied with his accomplishment. Ivan, asgraduate of one of the Corps, had been entitled to an ensignship in aline regiment. Influence, however, obtained for him a first lieutenancyin the Mounted Grenadiers--the finest regiment of the imperial guard inPetersburg, and the Emperor's favorite; whose uniforms, moreover, werecalculated to capture the faith and fancy of any damsel, not of bloodroyal, in the whole Empire. Last, and, from Michael's point of view, most important of all, such a position would give Ivan at once the_entré_ into the best clubs, and, with them, the "smartest" society ofPetersburg. 

Using these facts as a preface, Prince Gregoriev proceeded tosketch out, to his silent auditor, the lines of an ideal (!)social-politico-military career, untrammelled, at last, by thetraditional ostracism of his race. For his commission would do much forhim; and Madame Dravikine was practically pledged to provide some sortof reputation for her nephew, being not unaware that the celebrated mapof her brother-in-law contained more than one item of interest centeringabout her own most sacred name and title. 

Through the period of explanation Ivan sat motionless, eyes down, browsknit, apparently attentive to his father's words. At the end, when thePrince had handed him his commission and half a dozen introductoryletters, he bowed to his father, but uttered not one word of thanks orof understanding:--he--Sophia's son, though he had just received thegift of such a career as three-fourths of the young men in the countrywould have gone on their knees to obtain! Michael was half disposed tobe pleased at the fellow's insolence. But he did not have the finenessof intuition to dream that his son, watching him closely throughhalf-shut lids, had felt his blood pounding so furiously through hispulses that he dared not permit his lips to open for the fraction of asecond lest he should fling some expression of his deep disgust, hisanger--nay, his _hatred_--into his father's face, follow it with hiscommission, crushed into a ball, and rush forth from that ghost-hauntedhouse, never to re-enter it again. Instead of this theatricalperformance, then, Ivan chose silence and inaction. And finally, withbursting brain, he escaped to his own room, where he foundPiotr--ostensibly waiting with tea. 

But, unfortunately for Piotr, the young master was as uncommunicative asthe old; and the door to the inner sanctum had, throughout thisinterview, been shut and bolted. Thus mere speculation was all thatfound tongue in the serf's quarters that night. 

For many hours that afternoon--in fact, till darkness fell--Ivan satover the samovar, drank glass after glass of tea, rolled cigarette aftercigarette, and found himself at last still staring at a blankhorizon-line, upon which not one picture consented to appear. Yet, reason with himself as he would, he knew that the heart within him wassurging with joy. He was going out into the great world of Petersburg, his own master at last. He was going into the world of light, of gayety, of wealth; of the army, the court, of--of Nathalie Dravikine! Ay, it wastrue! That little love--that first, foolish love--lived in him still, having survived all the changes of his past changing years. Was it thento die, now, when his passion was about to be fired afresh by thepresence of its living object?

Pondering thus, Ivan inhaled his cigarette-smoke, and felt the finethrills of a subtle intoxication creeping along his nerves till, atlength, his thoughts took a new turn. Standing, as he did, upon athreshold, looking through an open doorway out upon active life, heconsidered those things which he should force from the world forhimself; and first of these, in his desire, was that knowledge whichresults only from experience. Kept all his life in the shadows of anunscalable wall of officialism, there had, nevertheless, reached hisears the first inarticulate rumors of that great movement of the youthof Russia towards enlightenment, towards education, towards individualunderstanding--a movement unique in the annals of the educationalhistory of the world. From this period for many years all the youth ofthat tremendous Empire--every boy, every _girl_, from the highest to thelowest, was to rise up, alone, uninfluenced, demanding of age andguardianship the right to go forth into the world to work, to study--tolearn, in fine, how a great country might in the future be developed. For a long time, even at Klin, within the walls of the Corps, Ivan hadheard tales almost incredible in their strangeness of bitterness andrupture among the finest families between father and son, mother anddaughter:--the members of the old regime against the self-constitutedadvocates of the new. Nor did a few months put an end to thisincomprehensible movement. Sonya Kovalevsky, in the company of herchivalrously nominal young husband, had left her parental estate and wasat work in Heidelberg, perfecting that mathematical genius that was tomake her known throughout the scientific world. Following her brilliantexample, went a small army of young, upright and earnest women andgirls, by whom half the universities in Europe were presently invaded, by no means, as was soon learned, to the detriment of the collegiatestanding, either in ethics or in learning. And as college after collegeopened its doors to these young seekers after truth, bigoted Russiastood aghast at the incalculable prospect of the future. 

More knowledge of these facts, and information of and experience in halfa hundred other matters, did Petersburg promise its new lieutenant; andthe more he thought of it all, the more eager did he become to embark atonce upon this new existence. Nor was the time of his departure faraway. He was just a month past his twentieth birthday when, upon abitter October morning, he was admitted once more to his father'ssanctum, this time to say good-bye. During the brief interview, Michaelexhibited a touch of feeling, perceiving which Ivan felt a brief pangthat he could not match it. But when a roll of twenty-five hundredrubles was placed in his hands as the allowance for his first sixmonths, the young man's gratitude was sincere enough and deep enough tosatisfy the father, who knew more than his son of the expenses entailedby a life in one of the crack regiments of the guard, and who informedIvan a little sarcastically that his lieutenant's pay ought not to domore than keep him properly gloved and shod. 

By the time he emerged from that celebrated closet, with his commission, his passport, and three letters of recommendation, together with hismoney, in his uniform pockets, Ivan found that his hand-luggage hadalready been carried out and placed in the sleigh that was to carry himon the first brief stage of his journey into the great world. And, as heleft the palace and entered the square, his officer's swagger was just atrifle overdone. For he had shot up, as it were, in a night: he wastwenty and a personage at last!

The journey northward across the snowy flats was all a delight to thetraveller. Those odd little first trains that ran over the famous "rulerline" between the two Russian capitals, were still sources of wonder anddelight to the peasants of the scattered villages now beginning tospring up along the railway; and each stopping-point found the trainsurrounded by a throng of fur-clad individuals, many of whom hadtravelled some versts to see the train: perhaps accompanying a friendwho was to travel a short distance therein; perhaps to get a load ofmerchandise or freight destined for a distant town; or, perhaps, justfor the sake of seeing the engine, the cars, and the crowd that wouldassemble about them. Many of these last were country priests, idle onweekdays, desolate enough in their unique isolation, glad to seek anysort of distraction for its own sake, and even more eager than theirpeasant inferiors for the distinction of a single word of greeting orcommand from one of the lords of passage. Ivan was pleased to alightfrequently; get a brief walk in the sharp air; address a word or two tosome adoring native; and scatter a handful of kopecks among theoccasional children of the station-masters. But these paltry happeningswere all forgotten, and his heart full to bursting, when at last, on theevening of the second day, there gleamed, far ahead through the dusk, the red lights of St. Petersburg. 

 * * * * *

The first week of a young man's independence: his entrance into theexalted rank of high-born bachelorhood--can it ever again be brought upout of the past a distinct, coherent memory? Hardly. For Ivan and thecapital spun together in the wildest of dances, during the first days oftheir meeting. Ivan's mind whirled in a chaos of regimentalintroductions and instruction, wearying hunts for suitable bachelorquarters, long afternoon hours filled with the pungent smell of tanbarkand the careerings of a horse with whom he never came to be on terms ofabsolute equality; evenings spent in the glamour of strange restaurants, the discussion of French _entrées_, and the contemplation ofmuch-dressed denizens of the high and the half worlds; and, finally, retirement in a room at the Hôtel Bellevue, where a young lieutenantwith only two thousand rubles in his pocket was not a person of anyspecial importance. 

This haze of memory terminated, finally, and objects appeared in aclearer atmosphere, when young Gregoriev became half-owner of a charmingapartment in the irreproachable _Bashkov Peréolouk_, ten minutes' walkfrom his barracks, in partnership with a fellow-officer, one Vladimir deWindt, destined to become his friend of friends. And shortly after thismomentous step, Ivan took another, by presenting his card in the_Serghievskaia, numéro 843_, where his aunt, Madame Dravikine, vouchsafed him ten minutes of her much-besought time, it being theafternoon of one of her receptions. In her small, but admirably arrangeddrawing-rooms, were gathered the cream of a certain set of Petersburgsociety, now met for the first time this season, and making the roomsecho with their particular variety of scandalous, intensely personalnews acquired during a long summer, and apparently having been held backfor exploitation at this special hour. Unintelligible as it proved toIvan's unsophisticated ears, he listened with awe to the sound of royal, and other lofty and sacred names bandied about with a familiarity thatwas the opposite of respect. 

By some imperceptible means, Madame Dravikine saw to it that her nephewcame in contact with those people who could be useful to him; and shewas satisfied, if slightly surprised, to see the ease with which hetalked. Ivan himself wondered that he felt so little embarrassment inentering into the mood of the hour, and, while he talked, drank a greatmany cups of tea, each of which contained a considerable quantity ofrum. But all the time he kept an eye over his shoulder, in the hope ofcatching some glimpse of his cousin Nathalie. Time passed, and the younglady did not appear. Ivan longed but did not dare to inquire about her. So, at last, he walked back to his apartment, arm in arm with de Windt, who had been no less surprised than pleased at discovering him in thehouse of so established a leader as Madame Dravikine. De Windt, himselfa celebrated dandy, began, as they left the Serghievskaia. 

"You are an enigma--a deceiver, Ivan Mikhailovitch! Here it is a weeksince you arrived. You profess to know no one. But you managedimmediately to join quarters with me; and now "--he stopped, turningfrom the wind to light his cigarette--"now, on the first afternoon youare left alone, you immediately appear at one of the best-known housesin the Admiralty quarter, where you seem as much at home as--I myself!"

Ivan echoed his companion's laugh. He had gauged the real depth of deWindt's conceit, and knew him to be, at bottom, both sincere and just inhis estimates of men and things. "I ought to be at home there, atleast, " he observed, quietly. "Caroline Ivanovna--Madame Dravikine--ismy aunt. "

"St. Serge!--And you let us dub you '_bonhomme nouveau_'!--_GrandDiable_, Ivan Mikhailovitch, had you had the choice of Petersburg, youcould not have selected a better _lanceuse_ than Countess Caroline! Onmy word, your saint favors you!"

And Ivan, who shrugged away the whole affair, found Monsieur de Windtperfectly right. Fortune had stationed herself at his shoulder, at last;and the young man did well docilely to obey her whispered directions. Ina month, there were a thousand young men about town, far above thestation of a Gregoriev, who would have given half their prospects forIvan's present position. But the fickle goddess loves well to show herface to him who has never sought to lift her veil; and to Ivan, whom shehad hitherto served so ill, she chose suddenly to shower with all thethings that youth desires. The young man found that, many and varied ashad been his dreams of the new life, reality surpassed them all. Work, consisting of regimental duties and musical study, had taken a largeplace in his mental picture of the present; and these things, with anoccasional holiday spent in exploring the new city, or, better, alone inthe company of his aunt, were to constitute all his work and recreation. Moreover, he had, perhaps, secretly pictured himself neglecting hisprescribed duties for those musical studies which he had hoped at lastto undertake seriously, at the recently founded Conservatoire: perhapsunder its founder and chief instructor, the great Rubinstein; at leastunder the second professor, the worshipful Zaremba, whilom conductor ofthe opera. --These occupations, conceived during long, wakeful nights inthe dormitory of the Corps, at Moscow, had seemed to him, at that time, details of a nearly perfect life. But Lieutenant Gregoriev of theimperial guard, man-about-town and nephew of Countess Dravikine, couldafford to laugh at his childish ideas of a "manly" existence. 

First of all, Ivan soon discovered that, in winter, regimental dutieswere practically nil. Half the privates of his regiment had beendismissed to their native villages. The rest, though nominally inbarracks, and paraded once or twice a month (very badly), were wont toeke out their half-pay (supposed to be whole, but actually shared withtwo lofty administrators whose names were known to a certain astuteMoscow official) by working in the Artels that ply their various craftsin the Russian cities throughout the winter season. The chief duty ofthe officers, then, was to act as escort to members of the royal familywhen they took formal outings, or made short journeys to Peterhof orsuch of the country palaces as were within driving distance of theHermitage. Also, certain mornings of each week were spent at theriding-school; and others in the practice of fencing and shooting, orthe perusal of the drill manual. The afternoons and evenings were free, in so far as a member of smart society can ever be free, considering thenecessity of being seen in every private or public place of amusementconsidered "the thing" at the moment. And, though Ivan was far too muchof a novice to perceive any iron underneath the flowers on the chains hehad voluntarily donned, he soon discovered that regular study of anykind was impossible for him in that atmosphere. 

Ivan's regiment had always been a popular one in the capital; and, atthe end of the first six weeks of the new season, there was in it noofficer more sought-after than young Prince Gregoriev--"a nephew of theDravikines, you know. " And this "young Prince"--who had himself neverbeen known to use his title, lost no time in picking up the manners andthe jargon of his small, new world. The thing that, in the beginning, amazed him most, however, was the attitude towards him of his aunt; whomhe viewed with deep respect as the mother of Nathalie. He was slow tounderstand Madame Dravikine's habit of surrounding herself with youngmen; or the fact that she had had it assiduously whispered about thather sister, the mother of Ivan, had been married when she was herself achild scarce out of arms. But he wondered to find how very few of hisaunt's intimates remembered the age of her daughter, now for many yearsconvent-wrapped. His first moment of disillusion came on the day thathis aunt informed him, with considerable asperity, that his prettycousin was not a person to be mentioned in their circle--the reasongiven--that "she was not yet out, "--sounding rather flimsy even to histrusting ears. Still, he was given to understand that, in allprobability, Nathalie would be presented next winter, at one of thecourt balls; on which day, Caroline admitted, wearily, to herself, herspecial reign must end. But to her, seasoned through fifteen years ofunavoidable pretence, it was impossible to see the effect of hercustomary fiction of existence, upon a mind hitherto so unused tofeminine subterfuge as that of Sophia's son. 

Ivan, troubled at heart by these and several other details of societylife, made certain cautious observations to de Windt which sent thatsophisticated young man into tempests of mirth. But guileless Ivan, whohad used no names, never realized that he himself was responsible, byhis insensibility, for the failure of Madame Dravikine's latestattempted flirtation, which took the drawing-rooms of Petersburg bystorm that December, and set men and women alike laughing cruelly overthe fall of Countess Caroline's carefully constructed age, which wasannounced, _en haute voix_, by her nephew, at a ball. At the same time, it was also, in all probability, this same incident, that saved poorNathalie another year of seclusion and prayers. For, had not the worldalready found her out, it is scarcely probable that the gay Countess, arrived at the actual hour of abdication, would have had the courage tobid her youth good-bye, and take up her place behind an exquisitedébutante. 

It was odd, perhaps, that Ivan was not at once banished from thesunshine of his aunt's favor. But, for some reason, she chose to retainhim among her circle of devotees, sore as was his heart and disabusedhis mind, of all illusion concerning the woman whom he had hithertolooked up to as the single true companion, gay counsellor, gentlephilosopher, of his unhappy mother; and whom he now saw, perhaps ratherunjustly, as a mere, deceptive, heartless _mondaine_. 

There were, however, in the society of the Russian capital into whichIvan had been so swiftly drawn, an infinite variety of other types whoamused, pleased, occasionally interested, their new companion andobserver. Petersburg was still under the stimulus of its changed rule. Nicholas, the Iron Czar, a man stern, unlovable and unsocial, was dead. With him had ended alike the horrors of a dreadful war and the lifelessformalities which, throughout his reign, had served as the only courtfunctions. Just now a young Emperor, delight of his people and hiscourt, husband, moreover, of the most charming of Princesses, wasmanifesting as much interest in evening gayeties as he did during thedaytime in those gigantic, newly projected reforms to which his wife andhis favorite minister were so ardently urging him. The six months' courtmourning, now thrown back, had revealed a lining of glowing rose. St. Petersburg, from humblest serf to Czarevitch, was filled with life andjoy. And the society of the capital had plunged into a fever of gayetyunknown for twenty years. Amusements began at noon and ended thefollowing dawn. The first entertainment of the day was the secondbreakfast:--for everybody naturally followed the French mode. Afterwardsthere was skating on the lakes of the Tauride; then the traditionaldrive down the Nevskiy Prospekt--a ceremony that shall endure till St. Petersburg is forgotten; then a round of calls at the houses of thoseold and noble families whose names demand that they open their doorsdaily to the younger of their class. Later, between eight and nineo'clock came dinner--a meal by no means neglected because of the tea, _zakouski_ and sweets that had been consumed steadily since _déjeuner_. And at ten o'clock, dinner over and the theatre begun, Petersburg beganto grow really wide awake and to enjoy itself. For of all nations in theworld, the Russian is the latest. Your true Slav nobleman is always anight-owl. Languid at luncheon, he endures his drive, enjoys his dinner, enthuses at the opera, scintillates at supper, and is _then_ roused to afull sense of the real business of life: dancing, gambling, or prolongedcalls upon his friends; after which there is usually somesleighing-party to the ice-palace on the Neva, or, if nothing betteroffers, a round of the music-halls, which open only after the opera isclosed. Yes, truly, after one month in this land, no one will deny thatParis has held too long the reputation that should belong to St. Petersburg: that of the gayest of all the gay cities of the world. 

Thus, for some months--from October to January--Ivan lived, nor pausedto reflect on the questionable usefulness of such a life. The boy hadknown too many wistful years to be easily inoculated by any reactivepoison in his stimulant. All the quieter dreams of that secret, innerlife of boyhood, were temporarily laid by. He failed to appreciate thereal value of the life he had led; the gift that he had begun to developin the finest, highest way. Had any one questioned him--though no one ofhis present world would have dreamed of so doing, he would doubtlesshave laughed at the suggestion of returning to the old ways. But whethersuch questions would or would not have set him, afterwards, to somefurtive weighing of respective values, it is impossible to say. Still, one may be permitted to hope the best of one's hero; or how impress alanguid public with his qualities?

Madame Dravikine, despite her little discomfiture, would neverthelesshave declared the season from October to January perfect--save, possibly, for a single gap in the royal coterie, and that in a spot thatshe did not habitually frequent. As a matter of fact, it was only inJanuary that there returned to the capital, after nearly a year'sabsence, possibly, the Empress excepted, the finest woman in Petersburg:sister of the Iron Czar, and aunt of the present Emperor--theGrand-Duchess Helena Pavlovna, voluntary leader of the reform party inthe capital. This great lady, immediately upon her return, doffed herprolonged mourning and threw open once more the doors of her famous_salon_. And it was through her--sister of kings--that Ivan, flockingwith the rest of his world to her famous drawing-rooms, returned after alittle, back to his best self. 

Her Royal Highness was a pattern of energy in all she undertook; and ithad been the habit of her lifetime to receive three evenings a week. OnMonday, on Wednesday, and on Friday she was at home: on each night to adifferent world. On Mondays, with Milutin throned on her right hand, shereceived the homage of the various members of the Council, each with hispet bundle of intrigues; and deftly encouraged the clamor of controversysure to be roused among these ministers of varied persuasion. OnWednesdays she sat alone in the centre of her _salon_, laughing at andwith the pretty world that came to flutter about her, in its richestplumage and most changeable humor. Finally, on Friday, she rewardedherself for duties done. Dressed quietly in black, with merely a scrapof old point on her high, white head, she gave her hands, her brains, and the refinement of her fine senses to--the musicians and the music ofRussia. For music was her recreation and her passion; and she hadcreated for it and for herself such a _salon_ as is scarcely to beequalled in history. No caste save that of ability was known on thesenights. Artists, uncouth and shy, who would have flown at the thought ofa royal command, flocked hither, sure of a genial welcome, artisticappreciation, and absolute freedom from the dreaded fashionables of theunknown world. For the Emperor himself could hardly have got aninvitation to his royal aunt's Fridays "at home. "

It was Vladimir de Windt (who, upon further acquaintance, betrayed manyhidden and unexpected talents, ) who carried Ivan, experimentally, to oneof these Fridays. For de Windt, who had in him, deeply hidden, tenderlycherished, that germ of artistic comprehension that is not to beacquired by any means, divined the same thing in his new-foundcompanion, and took a great risk to prove his surmise true. Ivan had notan inkling of what Vladimir ventured in taking him to that exclusivelittle palace, where, did his protégé prove a boor, he knew well heshould never find a place for himself again. But Vladimir had spent manyan evening at the opera with Ivan; and had studied well the expressionsthat Mozart, Rossini, Donizetti, even Flotow, at his best, could bringout upon his companion's mobile face. And her Royal Highness was wellknown to reward the discoverer of any new man of talent in her specialart. 

On that mid-January evening of Ivan's first appearance at the palace onthe quays, the scene that greeted his eyes was the same that afterwardsbecame so familiar to and so beloved by him. In the centre of thesquare, well-lighted, bare _salon_, which, used only for these evenings, contained not one of the customary hangings, or any medley of uselesstoys and ornaments, stood a great Érard, its shining top raised, flankedby two long stands heaped with music of every description. At the rightof the instrument, willingly accepting second place, stood the arm-chairof the Grand-Duchess; and about her, in an informal circle, each onequite at ease, sat or stood twenty or thirty men, young and old, withpossibly half a dozen women. At the piano, engaged in marking a sheet ofmanuscript music, was a short, heavy-set person, with a leonine mane anddeep, brilliant eyes: a man known all over Europe, and to be knownthroughout America: one Anton Rubinstein, pianist, a maker of music. Athis elbow, but talking to a frail-looking woman, was his brother, Nicholas, destined always to be overshadowed by Anton, but to whom thecause of Russian music was to owe far more, in the end, than to the moreshowy _virtuoso_. In the knot about Madame Helena's chair were Zaremba, Sérov, Glinka, Balakirev, Stassov, Lechetizsky--for the moment aspecial protégé of the Grand-Duchess, and even young Rimsky-Korsakov, atthis time merely a Conservatoire pupil. Finally, far away, at the end ofthe room, stood a long table, whereon were two unlighted samovars, flanked by golden platters of sandwiches, cakes and caviare, togetherwith piles of untouched plates. 

At the entrance of the two young men, de Windt grasping Ivan by the arm, the Grand-Duchess turned, in time to hear their names announced. Andafter a moment, she summoned them to her, with a slight gesture. Then, breaking off her argument with Ivan's future biographer, she held out ahand for de Windt to salute. 

"Vladimir Vassilyitch, I expected you. --Have you enrolled yourself underZaremba yet, for proper instruction?"

De Windt laughed. "Your Highness should get his Majesty and my Colonelto claim less time of me!"

"Bah, Monsieur Impertinence! The yacht club's green tables see more ofyou than your Colonel, as we all know. --Whom have you brought me?"

"My brother officer and good friend, Lieutenant Ivan MikhailovitchGregoriev, lately of Moscow. "

Her Highness started and straightened. "Gregoriev!--The son of Gregorievof Moscow, here!--Are you aware, sir--" Suddenly she stopped, her gazemeeting that of Ivan, and noting the deathly pallor of his face, thesudden fire in his eyes. With an effort, she restrained herself, andpresently observed, in a different tone:

"I have heard of your father, Lieutenant. --Are you a musician?"

A shred of color crept back into Ivan's lips; but his voice was unsteadyas he said, in a low, rather rough voice: "I ask the pardon of yourRoyal Highness, and beg leave to go. --The fault and the mistake of mypresence are entirely mine!"

At these words, de Windt turned towards him, sharply; but their hostessinterrupted his first syllable:

"You have made no mistake, sir. Vladimir Vassilyitch is responsible forall that he does. You are, I presume, a lover of music?"

"Indeed yes, your Highness!"

"You play?"

Ivan, glancing towards the piano, encountered the keen look of theworld's master-pianist. "I have played at home, as a boy, for--mymother, " he answered, the last word uttered very low. 

A brief silence followed his speech. The little scene was unusual, andhad by this time caught the attention of the room. Ivan felt the hostilefire of many eyes fixed on him, and perceived dimly what they hadresolved:--that he was to be tried, here, as others had been beforehim--rather cruelly. 

Finally the Duchess herself glanced towards the piano. "Anton, have youmarked your expression?"

"That is finished. --But I have not as yet suggested a fingering for thecadenza. "

"No matter. --Ivan Gregoriev, Monsieur Rubinstein has brought us a newmanuscript--a barcarolle, you said, Anton?--finished to-day, and broughthere to be played to me. He writes a clear hand. Sit down, then, and letus hear you interpret it. "

"_I_, madame!"

"I said so. "

Ivan flushed crimson, and then went white again. An instant later hesmiled: smiled as on the night of his initiation at the _Corps desCadets_, when his tormentors could not make him cry out. Without anotherword he walked to the piano and seated himself in the place vacated byRubinstein, who, angered at the thought of having his new creationmurdered by a tyro, speedily betrayed his mood to the company, whoregrouped themselves near the instrument. After this, the silencebecame absolute. 

A long, tense moment, and then, --a sound broke the stillness: a long anddelicate _tremolo_, high in the treble. Instinctively, Helena Pavlovnaclosed her eyes. The vibration increased, descended an octave, continuedan instant alone, and then was joined by a second tone by which themelody was begun. It was a passage simple to read and played simply, butwith both delicacy and understanding, and without any of that _rubato_or other affectation by which young Lechetizsky was already beginning tomar his style. It was music pure, almost classical--the work not of a_virtuoso_, but of a composer. And Rubinstein, leaning against the wall, his eyes on Ivan's face, felt his humor change. His work, if better thanhe had hitherto believed it, was certainly not being spoiled as yet. Still--he must wait till the turning of the page, where began some ofthose elaborate pyrotechnics that cheapen so much of his work. Couldthis modest youth accomplish anything intricate? Probably not. Andyet--the fellow was calm enough. Even Rubinstein failed to divine theextent of the strain under which he labored. 

Ivan had begun the _barcarolle_ trembling. The first page successfullyaccomplished, however, he lost himself a little, and began to feel theold, musical, sixth sense creeping through him, and emerging, gloriously, at his fingertips. Confidence increased. He had turned thepage. Ah! Here, truly, was need of it. The ensuing passage was utterlybeyond his rusty skill! One hurried glance told him that. Afterwards--hewent calmly on. Rubinstein, listening more at ease, was seen to give asudden start, stare an instant at the performer, and then, catchingNicholas' eye, lift his brows in protest, to the only man who had heardthe composition before. Ivan was retaining the melody, picking itunerringly from the mass of blurring notes, and substituting for thedifficulties of the accompaniment, a simple, graceful set of brokenchords. 

At the beginning of the second part of the development the performer, exalted, even a little intoxicated with his sense of success, essayed abit of improvisation considerably more important than the first. Thistime he ceased absolutely to follow Rubinstein's harmony, and, retainingsimply the melody, changed, however, to a minor key, he produced an odd, rhythmical little series of syncopations so rich, so strange, and withalso unlawful that when, omitting the conventional _cadenza_, he plungedinto a coda of his own, Rubinstein flew furiously to the piano and wouldhave struck the youth's hands from the keys but for a gesture from herHighness so imperious and so unmistakable that the great pianist's angryprotests died upon his lips, and he joined, perforce, in the tumult ofapplause that ended the unparalleled performance. 

Ivan found himself the centre of an intensely curious throng. Congratulation, commendation of a two-edged sort, questions andejaculations, flew round him like hail. Then there fell a sudden silenceas the Princess, leaning heavily on her cane, approached the pianothrough a little lane respectfully opened for her in the throng. But itwas to Rubinstein, not Ivan, that she addressed herself:

"What has this young man been about, Anton?--Your style is certainlyvery much improved!"

"Your Highness, it was not my barcarolle you heard, but a clever bit ofimprovisation on my theme--my own development having proved, no doubt, too much for Monsieur Gregoriev's technique. "

Helena Pavlovna cast one answering look at this man whose musical talentwas surpassed only by his well-known, frantic jealousy of every possiblerival. And then, taking the abashed Ivan by the hand, she turned andfaced her guests:

"My friends, we have listened, to-night, to the début of one of Russia'stalented sons. I introduce to you, in Monsieur Ivan MikhailovitchGregoriev, a new composer; one who, a Russian of Russians, shall, Ipredict, carry the songs of our country beyond herself, and proclaimthem over civilized Europe!"

A smile of self-forgetfulness, of an enthusiasm that betrayed the beautyof her royal soul, shone upon the lips and from the eyes of this truePrincess, as Ivan, his heart beating to suffocation, fell impetuouslyupon one knee before her and raised her frail hand to his lips. 

It was indeed his début in the Russian world of music; and alas! itgained for him fewer friends than enemies. For, of all types of men andwomen upon earth, those into whom Euterpe has breathed her spirit, arecertainly the most practised in envy, hatred, malice and alluncharitableness. 

CHAPTER VIII

IN CAMP

It cannot be denied that, on that momentous evening, the marked interestof the Grand-Duchess in Ivan and his general success, were out of allproportion to a performance which, as a matter of fact, any one in theroom could probably have duplicated. True, Princess Helena's unerringjudgment had at once marked the originality, the distinctiveness, of theyoung man's improvisation; though she did not fail also to mark hisnumberless transgressions of the rigid laws of harmony. And Ivanhimself, when all was over, began to feel some little mortification thathe had so openly betrayed his pleasure in his accomplishment; and hepresently discovered that de Windt himself could teach him points inprogression and modification of which he knew nothing: whereupon, beholdhim once again on fire to get to work at his long-delayed, vaguely-foreshadowed profession. 

His rendering of the now celebrated _barcarolle_, had given him anunquestioned place in the _salon_ of the Grand-Duchess, which henceforthhe frequented regularly. And there he met with both adulation andopposition. To his secret surprise, Rubinstein, together with hisco-adjutor Zaremba, professed great enthusiasm concerning him, andunceasingly urged him to enter the Conservatoire. This, at length, he, in the company of de Windt, tentatively did: taking his place in one ofZaremba's classes of composition, and undertaking the study oforchestration under Serov. Here Ivan showed himself phenomenallyprolific in the production of exercises; and he grasped the difficultprinciples of composition in a remarkably short space of time. Unfortunately, however, formal work did not content him; and one day hecarried to Rubinstein two or three eccentric little pieces, on which hehad expended both energy and admiration. Here, at last, the great Antonfound his opportunity. He whipped Ivan's work to rags with sarcasticcriticism; leaving not one measure untouched by his caustic and ratherbrutal wit. Next day he received his young pupil's resignation from hisclasses; and the gay world regained its pet. For Ivan, in a fit ofchildish anger, left his work behind him, and plunged into a furiousround of dissipations, of which gambling now formed the chief. Dawnafter dawn saw him leaving the green tables of either the "Nobility" orthe Yacht clubs; and, as if to applaud his defection, fate decreed thatIvan could not lose. Baccarat, roulette, piquet, even whist, --Ivan wonat them all, till one drawer in his escritoire was stuffed full oflightly won notes. 

The Countess Dravikine, it seemed, was highly pleased at her nephew'sreturn to what she considered the only proper society for a member ofher family. And it was probably through some communication of hers that, during the second week in April, Ivan was astonished at the receipt of avery good-humored letter from his father, containing much speciousadvice upon his conduct, together with the intelligence that, henceforth, his allowance should be doubled. At this time of his life, indeed, Ivan might have thrown money into the street by handsful andstill have felt no want. But, as if to add mockery to the situation, this Ivan was the least extravagant of young men. His wants weresingularly few; and the chief items in his expenditure consisted in thelending of money to his brother officers; all of whom eventually paidtheir debts. 

There was one thing, one brief but delightful incident, indirectlybrought about by Madame Dravikine, which Ivan had to cherish during thelong months that ensued. 

During the whole of this winter of her cousin's introduction to thegreat world, Mademoiselle Nathalie Alexeiovna had remained shut awayfrom any possible encounter, in the Catherine Institute. As the springadvanced, however, Mademoiselle Nathalie's mother began to receiverather disturbing reports concerning the health of the young girl. Shewas neither eating nor sleeping; she looked pale and worn; and she layon her bed during all the hours of recreation. So Madame la Comtessefinally sacrificed a charming luncheon and a musical, and went, oneafternoon, to see her daughter for herself. The sight did not provereassuring. Nathalie was certainly not well. And the outcome was that, upon the advice of a doctor, the young lady obtained one month's leavefrom her studies and returned home to amuse herself, agreeably, underthe wing of her mother, in the house in the Serghievskaia. 

In spite of these things, the details of home life proved less divertingthan the young lady had hoped. To her, accustomed for so many years to aregular routine of life and the continual companionship of girls of herown age, the fashionable mode of existence in her father's house wasconfusing and unpleasant. Her slight illness did not confine her to herroom. On the contrary, the doctors had prescribed much open-airexercise, together with early hours. These things not being in the leastin her mother's line of occupations, Mademoiselle Nathalie was driven toher own resources, and to arrange some sort of programme for herself. Among the many serfs of the household there was one, EkaterinaNicolaievna, who had been her nurse in infancy, and, since the departureof her demoiselle to the Institute, had become a kind of _chargéd'affaires_ of the serfs' house. Thus the old woman was accustomed, quite on her own responsibility, to leave the house every morning, somehours before her ladyship was awake, and betake herself to the variousmarkets to buy food for the serfs' quarters, stopping, on the way home, to say her prayers before Our Lady of Kazan, and regaining theSerghievskaia before the Countess had rung for the first time. Theseexcursions, of which, as a matter of fact, her mother was ignorant, Nathalie now joined, and they soon became a delight to the young girl, who was still child enough to enjoy early morning rising. It was to heran excitement to find herself abroad in the quiet streets, to study themen and women hurrying to their work, to watch the quaint sights of thehour, listen to the hoarse cries of the innumerable basket-vendors, andstand by, half terrified, half ashamed, while old Ekaterina bargainedand haggled and quarrelled over her regular purchases of fish, _casha_, buckwheat flour and _kvass_, which was never made in the Dravikinehousehold, but bought by each servant for himself out of the inevitable"tea-money. "

On a certain morning in April, a few days before Easter, all the streetmerchants were abroad unusually early, and in great numbers. Two daysbefore there had been a thaw; but now the streets were a sheet ofglittering ice, and walking was a precarious business. Nathalie and hercompanion, their day's buying over, had just finished their devotions:which the girl went through with a reverence quite as deep as that ofthe old woman. Emerging upon the Nevskiy Prospekt, they had gone but afew steps from the famous little chapel, when Nathalie felt a lighttouch upon her arm, and lifted her eyes to behold a slender figure, wrapped in a fur-lined military coat, bending before her. As his headwas raised, the young girl gave a little cry, upon which her guardianseized her arm protectingly, glaring, the while, at the presumptuousone:

"Let me go, Katrina! It is my cousin--from Moscow--IvanMikhailovitch!--I knew that you were in Petersburg, Ivan. But--you areout very early!"

Ivan gave a joyous laugh. He was, as a matter of fact, just returningfrom a night of festivity at the Nobility Club. But this, naturally, wasnot to be confessed. 

"No earlier than you, at least, mademoiselle, " he returned. "And willyou accept my escort to wherever you are going?"

Nathalie gave one, quick glance into the old woman's scowling face. Thenthe demon of mischief entered into her, and she accepted Ivan's offer. 

That fifteen-minute walk to the Serghievskaia, with the lynx-eyedguardian tramping at his heels, wrought new havoc with Ivan. It tooksixty seconds to perceive that the closely cherished ideal of hisboyhood had been worthy of every moment of adulation expended on it. Twominutes more, and the intensity of past emotions was quite swallowed upin the joy of the present. In just what light the maiden regarded him, she made it difficult enough for him to guess. But the interpretation ofhis own feelings, --this furious throbbing of his heart, the awkwardhesitancy of his speech, --was no very difficult matter. When at last heleft her, at her mother's door, he made himself an inward promise thatthis should be the first of many such meetings. And when he reached hisown quarters, it was to amaze de Windt by the radiance of his expressionand his apparent lack of fatigue. Though he retired presently to hisroom and lay down there, he found sleep to be a thing entirelyundesirable, considering the subject of his waking dreams. 

Next morning, somewhat earlier than on the previous day, he entered thechurch of the Virgin of Kazan. But though for an hour and a half he sawevery soul that entered there, his cousin did not come. That morningwas a black one. In the afternoon, driven by his folly, he presentedhimself, at an absurd hour, at the house of his aunt. There he wasreceived, promptly. But he was not long left in doubt about the natureof his welcome. Madame Dravikine, it appeared, had learned the wholetale of yesterday's walk from the dragoness-serf; and her nephew had toendure a short and sarcastic sermon upon the nature of etiquette foryoung girls which finally sent him from the house, white-faced andfurious. Truly, if his aunt had vented upon him her preposterous speciesof jealousy, she had gained thereby no good-will from the young man, whoworshipped her daughter from afar as a creature scarcely to be treatedas a mortal being. 

Blindly persistent, Ivan refused to be discouraged by his misadventure. For a month, at every hour of the day, he watched the door of theDravikine residence; but failed, by any strategy, to catch a singleglimpse of his pretty cousin. Nay--one exception there was! Upon areception-day he did find her in her mother's drawing-room, seatedbefore a samovar, prepared to answer "_oui_" or "_non_" to any remarkaddressed to her. But Ivan had kept his place beside her for less thanten minutes when he was superseded by a deprecating envoy from theCountess. Fifteen minutes later he left the house and went raging home, to endure, for the first time, serious pangs of jealousy. And, as he satlistening to de Windt's calm prophecies of Nathalie's success, nextwinter, as a débutante, he cursed volubly, under his breath, to thinkhow soon every wretched _roué_ in the city would be free to pollute thespotless child with glances, with words, even, in dances, with a claspof her waist! De Windt, watching him covertly, said to himself that bythat time, should this madness continue, Ivan would be fit only for anasylum. 

Meantime, the season advanced. The great thaw came; and there would beno more snow for months. Russia was a sea of mud. All young things wereharkening to the call of the spring: and youthful blood, like sap, flowed fast. Ivan, vindictively acknowledging that, for the present, hisideal was quite beyond him, became, to a certain extent, interested inanother woman, whose future career was destined, indeed, to touch his atpoints many and strange. 

This young person was called Irina Petrovna; and she was a recentgraduate of the Government School of Singing. Her father was one of theviolins in the opera orchestra. And it was a great day for him when hisdaughter made her début on the boards over his head. She made her firstappearance in a small rôle of a Mozart opera; achieving precisely thesuccess predicted for her by her ironic master: a success of form, offace, above all, of manner. She had but a moderate voice, thisremarkable young person. But she suffered no stage-fright; and thoughthe ladies of the audience regarded her with no enthusiasm, it was to beobserved that the vast majority of the men in the house, gave her briskapplause: hailing with delight this legitimate member of the troupe whomit would certainly be worth while to ask out to supper. 

Ivan, rarely enough attracted by women of her type, was in a dangerouslysusceptible mood. And de Windt was hardly more displeased than surprisedat the invariable attendance of Ivan on those evenings when MademoisellePetrovna was billed to appear. Ivan himself made no great effort toanalyze the appeal she made to him: an appeal to the baser side of hisnature. But, though he met the young woman more than once, it soonbecame evident, even to his friend, that he had no intention ofattaching himself seriously to her following. What it was that held himback, he did not know: the memory of two sad, gray eyes, a voice raisedfor him in warning at the moment when it was about to die into eternalsilence; or the nearer vision of a slender, dark-crowned maid, clad inwhitest draperies;--who shall say? At any rate, Ivan was evidentlydetermined to keep this latter picture unrivalled in his heart, letrichly dangerous fascinations call to him as they might. 

But the young singer herself, it would appear, cherished no suchprotective vision. Her professional career in Petersburg was a briefone. By mid-May, a fortnight before the opera season came to an end, Mademoiselle Petrovna had left the company and was no longer availablefor pleasant little suppers at the Bellevue or the Courteliain. Thematter of her going--and more especially its manner--formed a week'ssubject of surmise at the three great clubs. But the retreat of thecharming débutante was not discovered. And if she had taken with her acompanion, the identity of that person was a matter rather of surmisethan of knowledge. For which reasons, probably, the gossip about theaffair gradually ceased, though the subject that replaced it was commonenough, neither spiced nor salted, but found, by more people than one, to be as indigestible as it was unsavory. 

To be plain, June was at hand; and every officer in that capital ofofficers, was preparing for his ten weeks of annual drill and roastingin the camp at Krasnoë-Selo. 

In considering the peculiarity of the army regulations in Russia, itbecomes necessary, first of all, to take brief survey of that greatestand most dread factor of all the life in that Empire, neglected thoughit has been by every commentator and critic of civilized nations: afactor which stands first in the life of every Russian, from the highestofficial of the cumbrous governmental machine down to the humblestdescendant of the serfs; both of whom, with every member of every classbetween them, lives, and for ten centuries _have_ lived, at the mercyof that grim and terrible, --_climate_. 

It has for some years been the custom among certain foreign nations, notably the great English-speaking mother and her rebellious offspring, to set forth, in various forms of print, many individual opinions ofRussia, its people, and its government. Here all the scribbling of thequasi-authoritative, statistical variety has lately focussed itself, bursting forth in a very tornado of long-winded, vilificaciousignorance. Certain subjects may be suitable vehicles for the exploitingof this species of personal vanity. But of them the most incongruous, and the most abused, has been the great, white, silent, unprotestingland. Nothing about it, from its origin to its beverages, but has had tobear the brunt of outrageous comment, for which the justificationproffered is usually some six weeks' summer residence in the capital, and perhaps one or two brief "arranged" conversations (by means of aninterpreter), with an official of the third or fourth grade. Such thesource of many a book; though the few English-speaking foreigners whohave enjoyed ten or more years of residence among the Russian people, would be slow to make a single generalization anent that remarkablerace. 

In this class of writings, however, and even among articles of a bettertype, there is, strangely enough, nowhere to be found so much as astraw's weight of stress laid upon the relentless, indestructible causeof so many of the woes of a country whose struggle for the bare means ofsubsistence has been Titanic. Nowhere is there any analysis of the powerthat has won so many victories against the one implacable enemy ofRussia: nowhere any suggestion of the million strategic _coups_ by whicha handful of feeble human beings have again and again defeated thisgigantic force. Above all, has no one ever given pause to theunquestionable fact that, supposing Russia to be (what she is not) fivehundred years behind the rest of European civilization, she has had butone month out of the other nations' two, in which to progress. If herarmies be worse drilled, less hardy, than those of her enemies, it isbecause they live their soldier-lives for scarcely one-third of theyear. And finally, the half-brutal, half-savage, wholly ignorantcondition of her one hundred and forty million peasants, is due, not inany wise to the tyranny of mere kings and overlords, but to therelentless, never-dying, never-staying cruelty of that unconquerableruler, whose abuse of power is to be stopped by neither rebellion norassassination; and whose heart is to be warmed to humanity by no tears, by no appeal; by the lashes of whose frozen knouts a great people hasbeen beaten into apathy, their brains deadened through physicalsuffering, their children's children bearing a hopeless heritage down togeneration after generation of those who wage, from birth to death, their dreary, dragging warfare with the real tyrant of Russia, monarchunlimited and unapproachable, the Winter of the North. 

It is, then, in this grim fact, that there is to be found the origin ofthe curious custom of the Russian army to take all its lessons in theart of warfare, together with all discipline, drill, and generaltraining, during those ten weeks of summer when the daily parade willnot produce a hospitalful of frozen ears, hands and feet. During thewinter, indeed, only the guard regiments, quartered in the large cities, are kept at anything like full complement, the whole army of the linedispersing to village and farm, country estate and smaller town, whence, in the first weeks in June, they come pouring into the half-dozen hugecamps stationed at various points of the Empire. These camps had all ofthem been designed by Nicholas I. , and they serve his purpose to thisday. Of them all, the most important is naturally that nearest thecapital and, therefore, under royal supervision: Krasnoë-Selo, distantfrom Petersburg between fifteen and eighteen miles, and about half amile from the little town of that name. Thither, therefore, Ivan andVladimir were about to proceed, with their regiment. 

Naturally enough every cadet, before leaving his Corps, was made awareof many of the facts of this camp-life. But its more intimate details, those making the existence tolerable or intolerable, were to bediscovered only by experience; and, moreover, depended largely upon thename and the reputation of the individual, and the standing of hisregiment. 

Ivan himself obtained considerable information from de Windt, to whomcamp life was by no means a novelty. Certainly the work would be hard, the days long, and the quarters the opposite of luxurious. At the sametime Ivan, rather weary of his idle existence, looked forward with someenthusiasm to aiding his captain in whipping their company into shape. Despite the fact that their regiment was one of the few that remained inbarracks during the winter, it was in anything but "crack" condition. Indeed, as its under-officers admitted, sadly, among themselves, theywere living now upon their past reputation, gained in a year when theyhad led the camp in marching, and won the medals for drill and thespotless nattiness of their arms and uniforms. They had fairly earnedtheir nickname of the "Imperial Dandies. " But that had been in the timeof Mezéntsoff. Since the day when his promotion had brought hisadjutant, Brodsky, to the colonelcy, the regiment had retrogradedsteadily. And now, it appeared, they were about to reach their climax ofdisgrace. Already there were whispers in the air concerning the utterincompetency of their leader. But it was left for the first month atKrasnoë to reveal to the whole army the dire truth of the whispers. 

Meantime, as the northern days lengthened till the night was a bare twohours in length, the great houses of the Admiralty quarter were closing, one by one. The city was filling with merchants, come down fromHelsingfors and the various Finnish towns, for their annual holiday; andthere was the usual invasion of ubiquitous tourists, whose dread of theRussian winter led them to visit the city at the dismal season whenbrown holland covers and fast-boarded windows shroud and coffin thecorpse of the dead winter. In short, the season, Ivan's first season, was over. The imperial family were at Peterhoff. Tsarskoë-Selo wasbrilliant with arrivals from the cream of the court society, among whom, naturally, the Dravikines occupied a foremost place. The Grand-DuchessHelena, with both Rubinsteins in her train, had gone to Baden-Baden todrink the waters and listen to half a dozen summer concerts which thebrothers were to conduct. Lastly, two young officers, Ivan and de Windt, were closing their snug apartment, and preparing kits suitable for tentaccommodation. The younger of the two men, looking back over thehappenings of his first winter in the great world, that first winter ofhis happiness, felt in his heart a pang of regret that those brightmonths were gone, carrying with them the great beautiful freshness whichwas so soon to pass out of his life forever. There might--nay, thereshould, be a hundred more winters, some one of which should bring withit events greater than any he had known. But never again would one ofthem hold for him a touch of the same unlooked-for delight, the sameexquisite joy at the welcome of the world for him, that he had knownthis year. He wondered, vaguely, if his mother knew how all thatbitterness of his birth, the sting of his father's whispered reputation, had been removed from him. And as he prayed that this might be, heyearned for one hour of her presence, of that unselfish interest in allthat interested him; for but a dozen words of her gentle but unerringcouncil, as he had scarcely yearned for her through the first days afterher death. But Ivan was, at this time, little given to melancholies; anda laughing question from Vladimir in the next room, brought him back torealities and his man's work. 

Thus, finally, on the second Monday in June, the regiment began itstwo-day march to camp; and bore the hours of unaccustomed walking badlyenough to draw upon it the immediate attention of every colonel in theCorps. But its own colonel was not there to see. The senior Major ledthe men to their quarters; and it was not till they had encamped forfour-and-twenty hours that Brodsky made his appearance in the luxuriousdouble tent prepared for him at a little distance from the end of theofficers' row. 

A few days later, upon the evening of the eighteenth of the month, anerect, smartly uniformed young officer entered a tent midway down thenarrow, canvas-lined street and flung himself, wearily, upon one of thetwo camp-beds that flanked the little room. It was several momentsbefore he rose to remove his accoutrements, his boots and his clothes, wrap himself in a most unmilitary dressing-gown, and throw himself downonce more with a sigh of relief. 

It was past nine o'clock; but the sun was still above the edge of thehorizon, and its beams had that soft, whitish, unnatural light of thenorthern summer night. A faint breeze came down from the waters of thegulf, lifting away the fetid odors of the huge camp, and bringing reliefto the thousands of wet and dirty men who were half prostrated by heatand unwonted exercise. Ivan, who had lain gazing moodily through thelifted flap of the tent, had fallen into a light doze before de Windt, more than ever his companion, came quietly in, and repeated the actionsof his comrade. Finally, when he was comfortably abed and puffing awayat a short meerschaum, he turned to his comrade, stared at him for aninstant, and then called him by name, twice. 

At the second summons Ivan started, shook himself, and turned towardsthe other bed: "What did you say? When did you come in, Vladimir? Howlong since you left the mess?"

"Twenty minutes, about. "

"And--?" Ivan paused, for an instant, while a frown appeared between hisbrows, "they are--discussing the usual theme?"

"All evening. --It seems there are developments. --But where were you fordinner?"

The frown deepened. "Potapoff of the engineers had asked me over totheir mess--very civilly. --You know I've seen a good deal of him lately, because of that survey I've been working out. --I went, suspectingnothing. But I soon discovered it was only to see how much they couldpump me with regard to--to this d---- situation of ours. I tell you, it's all through the camp. "

De Windt sat up, with an ejaculation of deep disgust. "Well--youdidn't--they didn't get anything out of you, did they?"

"Holy Virgin!--D'ye think I'm _proud_ of the fix? D'ye think theregiment doesn't mean as much to me as to you?--I left them the minutetea came in; and I lay here thinking about it when I dozed off. "

"Vladimir Vassilyitch, the thing can't go on. It _can't_! We'll bedegraded for good. Two years hence, the report that a fellow's been inthis regiment will come near ruining him. --And yet--what Brodsky'sabout, I simply can't fathom. He's been on parade exactly twice since wepitched tent; and both times, if the men hadn't known his general habitsat manoeuvre, they'd have been stumped to obey. Zedarovsky said hecould barely mumble. --Vladimir, the man's an animal. --But, I say, whatare the developments you spoke of?"

De Windt was silent for an instant, studying the open expression of theclear-eyed, clean-cut young face before him. During the past winter theolder man had conceived a friendship for Ivan such as he would hardlyhave believed himself capable of. Above all things, de Windt was proudof Ivan's scrupulous morality, and the almost incredible chivalry withwhich he regarded all women. Few men attempted to fathom the extent ofhis innocence. But it was a fact that conversations of a certain typewere instinctively stopped when this young fellow entered a room--thoughit were the lounging-room of the notorious Yacht club itself. It was forthis reason that de Windt paused for a full five minutes, and thatIvan's impatience was becoming visible, before he answered, gravely:

"Ivan Mikhailovitch, you've seen a good deal of our 'manly' existencethis winter, in Petersburg. I imagine you've got your own opinion of it. We won't discuss that. But see here, when a man is seen continuallyneglecting his duty; when he is constantly rushing off, without a wordto a soul, and is always seen in the same locality; when he's alwayshalf-drunk but refuses companionship, and threatens his servant with theknout if he examines the address on the letters he writes every fewhours; when he seems to have lost any sense of duty or decency orposition that he has attained to; what is the infallible explanation ofthat man's behavior?"

Ivan sprang to his feet. "You mean it's a woman?--Brodsky can't havemarried again, surely?"

De Windt smiled. In his mind he marvelled a little, even while herejected the idea of either guile or idiocy in Ivan's simple question. "Why the secrecy, then?--and the ill-temper?--All the same it _is_ awoman, though. We've all come to that conclusion. --As a matter of fact, Ivan, Zedarovsky swears he _saw_ her, walking down officers' row, probably on her way to the village, two nights ago. By his watch, shehad just time to catch the last train, --the eleven-twenty-five, forPetersburg. She was going rapidly, with her head down. She wore a thickwhite veil, too. And yet he swears also that--he recognized her. "

"_Recognized her!_ Great God, Vladimir, it's not--it can't be--any onewe know?"

"Why not?"

"Oh!--Oh because--that brute!--It would be sickening to think of awoman's even dining with him!"

"That is probably precisely what she had been doing. --He's certainlygetting rather reckless. But we compared notes; and nobody saw him thatday after five-thirty; and Féodor, his orderly, was on guard at the tentdoor all evening, the officer of the watch says. --By Heavens, he'll haveher--"

"But you haven't told me whom they say she is, Vladimir. Tell me!"

De Windt hesitated, and then, lifting his eyes to Ivan's, said, in agrave voice: "Why should you know, old chap?"

"Because I'm not the fool you take me for. --You've thought meeffeminate, de Windt, I suppose, because I have never--cared to go infor certain things. But it's not effeminacy, believe me. It's--"

"Don't, Ivan! For Heaven's sake don't dream I want your confidence aboutany private matter. All I've ever thought was that you were infinitelymore decent than the rest of us. "

A faint flush crept over Ivan's face; but he waived the speech gravely, and renewed the question. "I do want to know, Vladimir; because I have asuspicion as to her identity. And--and if it should be the one Ifear, --by Heaven--I've a plan that may help us! Tell me her name!"

"Zedarovsky says that it was--Irina Petrovna, the singer. "

Ivan's face paled slightly as he said, in a low voice: "I had apresentiment it was she. --Well, Vladimir, wish me success! I'm going, to-morrow evening, when I've arranged matters a little, to Brodsky'stent to protest, in the name of the regiment, about his behavior. "

"Ivan! Good God! He'll have you court-martialled and dismissed from theregiment!"

"He will do nothing of the sort. And if he does--better that, than havethe old Second go to utter ruin. "

"But--but--if you will be foolhardy, at least wait till you've givensome one of the others an opportunity. One of the majors, or theAdjutant, might do it with less danger. Give them a chance, Ivan!"

"If all things were equal, Vladimir, I'd never dream of arrogating theinterview to myself. But I have a certain power--at least, my fatherhas, that may, perhaps, properly used, influence Brodsky. --At least, ifit does not, nothing else in the world will!"

After this, though de Windt's curiosity was roused and he was eager tolearn the unsuspected means the use of which had been so long delayed, he could get nothing but monosyllables out of Ivan, who soon showedplainly that he would say nothing more concerning it. And, indeed, whena young and honorable officer has come to the determination to useblackmail upon his Colonel, be the purpose never so laudable, it is nota matter that he is likely to talk of, even with his best friend. 

Amazing though it may seem, and contrary to every rule of novelisticheroism, Ivan was determined to do a thing that he had beencontemplating for a week: to bring the terrible, unknown, but accuratelyestimated power of his father's map of men to bear upon Colonel Brodskyof the Grenadier Guards; to return a sobered and battered leader to aregiment in want; and to rescue--for so Ivan put it to himself--a damselin distress from the power of a brutal man, for whom she could notpossibly have any real affection. 

In the officers' mess of the Second Grenadiers, the head of the tablewas habitually occupied by the senior Major. From the first day of camplife, Colonel Brodsky had taken his meals in his tent--ostensibly alone. And, even when every officer and servant in the regiment could seeBrodsky's orderly running back and forth from the mess-kitchen to histent, carrying bottle after bottle of sparkling golden wine, the reasongiven was still the same: "The Colonel is too much occupied withregimental affairs to appear at mess. "

Many a laugh had gone round the table at this excuse. But by now thejoke was growing bitter; for every private in the camp spluttered in his_kvass_ at the mere mention of the leader of that once gallant regiment. Within the month, the whole Second was suffering, keenly, under theirdisgrace. And for this reason the youngest lieutenant, when he enteredthe mess-room on the evening after his talk with de Windt, found himselfthe hero of the table. For Vladimir had taken pains, that day, tointimate pretty clearly to one or two comrades Ivan's expressed purpose. Throughout the meal the prospect was discussed, indirectly, or inwhispers, between man and man; but even Ivan was a little startled when, supper ended, there came a sudden lifting of glasses to him, and a toastwas drunk which, though silent, was unanimous. A moment or two later theyoung officer, with a visible straightening of his body, rose, bowed, and walked out of the tent. None followed him; for it was instinctivelyunderstood that he should return to report his failure or success, before retiring for the night. 

The ranked order of the table was now broken up. The men pulled theirchairs into informal groups, and sat together puffing at cigarettes, sipping tea, and talking, in a desultory fashion, while the underlyingtension increased, and more than one man wondered a little at theweakness of his knees and the slight unsteadiness of the hand upholdingglass or match. Vladimir de Windt, Ivan's acknowledged chum, was doublyconcerned and doubly restless. He shuffled his chair from group togroup, his eyes asking anxious and unanswerable questions of eachcomrade with whom he discussed the state of the weather. And, indeed, the great doubt in his mind was echoed in that of every man present:what would be the outcome of Ivan's audacity? If Brodsky took theremonstrance in bad part--and who doubted that he would?--what would bethe fate of Gregoriev? Poor fellow! He had undertaken a quixotic task;and more than one of his fellow-officers regretted that they had not hadthe generosity to warn him of what he certainly should himself haverealized--the strong possibility of disgrace. 

In such wise there passed a quarter of an hour--twenty minutes--half anhour--finally, three-quarters. De Windt, now on his feet, was on thepoint of starting towards the Colonel's quarters, when--the suspenseended, and Ivan came quietly in. The young man's face was white andscowling as he seated himself at the table, poured himself a large drinkof _vodka_ and drank it off, amid the breathless attention of the wholemess. For three or four minutes they waited, patiently. But at last deWindt, who could restrain himself no longer, burst forth with:

"Ivan Mikhailovitch, for Heaven's sake tell us what has happened! Whatdid he say to you? How did he answer your accusation?"

Ivan broke out into an unpleasant laugh. "He tried swearing me out ofhis presence, " said he. "But that didn't quite do. My visit was--well, timely, or untimely, whichever way you regard it. It was a curiousscene; but I'm afraid I can't explain it very fully. It was--well, toointimate. What good I've done, I can't tell, just yet. But, at least, Fóma Vassilyitch is fully aware of our feelings in regard to his--hisrecent mode of existence. Now I must go, gentlemen. --Vladimir, may Ispeak to you, for a few minutes, on a private matter?"

With a formal bow, Ivan ended his most unsatisfactory explanation, andleft the tent again, followed eagerly by de Windt. 

Outside, however, Ivan's behavior was unexpected. De Windt began, atonce, with a flood of eager, anxious questions; but, when they were afew hundred feet away from the mess-tent, Gregoriev turned to him, saying, in a low tone: "Wait a little, Vladimir. The thing has more init than you suspect--thank God!--You will be able to guess all that Ican't explain; but you must wait, before I tell you anything, till I'veread--this!" And Ivan drew, from the breast of his uniform, a bit ofcrumpled paper, which, smoothing out, he paused in the white twilight toread. The note, written in a half-formed, feminine hand, ran thus:

 "LIEUTENANT GREGORIEV:--You behold me in an unbearable and misleading position. I am the most unhappy woman in Petersburg; but, if you will, you can save my whole life for me. I shall get this to you in some way; and, if you have any pity, any charity, in your heart, for a woman helpless and friendless, wait up in your tent, alone, to-night. I know which it is, and I shall come there as soon as I can get away and walk through the camp, without observation. All I ask is a brief talk with you. 

 "With unhappiest salutations, I am

 "IRINA PETROVNA. "

Ivan read the note through twice. Then, without a word, he handed it tohis companion, and waited till the latter's ejaculation announced thathe also had grasped its significance. Then, leading the way rapidly totheir own tent, Ivan seated himself opposite his companion, and said, ina low voice:

"Mademoiselle Petrovna was with Brodsky to-night, when I forced my waypast the orderly. She wrote this note and threw it upon the floor at myfeet while Brodsky was facing me. From what I saw, Vladimir, I'm certainthe Colonel hasn't prospered in his siege. For, in spite of allappearances, I'm convinced that the woman neither belongs to him norwishes to yield to him. But for the life of me I can't understand hercontinual presence here--in this camp, where--"

The sentence died away. De Windt shook his head, but forbore to utterhis incredulity. Presently he said:

"You'll see her, of course. --And you'll want me to be getting out ofhere. I can sleep with Deroiev, easily. "

"Thanks, Vladimir. --But, by the way, you'll--that is, I'd prefer, mygood friend, that you should say nothing at all of this incident. I'lllet you know, in the morning, the result of the interview. And I believethat, through her, we can reach Brodsky and force what we want. I had noopportunity, to-night, to say what I had planned. He is enraged with me, just now. But I have no fear of to-morrow. Before he attempts tocourt-martial me I shall have a little private interview with him, and--you shall see that the matter will blow over; and the Second maytake its right place again in the army. "

De Windt sprang to his feet, with an exclamation: "Pardieu, IvanMikhailovitch! I begin to think I have never known you, before! You--inyour first year out of the Corps--doing what not one of us dare do! Youmake one ashamed--"

"Nonsense, Vladimir Vassilyitch! I tell you, I'd be in the same case asthe rest of you if it were not for--my father. And now, help me to getthe place here in some sort of state to receive--the lady!"

So, laughing, the two fell silently to work. 

An hour and a half later the great camp was still and the brief nighthad fallen. Ivan, sitting alone in the unwontedly neat little tent, hadceased to smoke, and had begun, as a matter of fact, to nod, when he wasroused by the hurried entrance of some one whose garments brushed hisknees. He rose, hastily; stared about him in the darkness; and then, bethinking himself of the probable situation, hurriedly took amatch-safe from his pocket and lighted the night-lamp which stood on thetiny table. Then he turned to greet the young woman, who had thrown anenshrouding veil back from her face, and stood before him, waiting. 

She was a girl whose face and form were sufficient to excuse theinfatuation of a man of Brodsky's type. Surmounting a figure built onheroic lines, her noble head seemed as if it must be drawn backward bythe weight of her hair; which she wore without any of the elaborateside-curls then in fashion, but parted, and coiled low upon her neck, inunconscious harmony with her classic type. Her creamy skin, her great, blue eyes, and generously-moulded features, gave one the impression of asoul similar in size. And, indeed, at this period of her career, therewas little in Irina Petrovna to suggest the sordid, selfish, degradedwoman of later years. To-night she and Ivan, standing close together inthe candle-light, made a noble picture of youth. 

Just now, however, appearance was the last thought in either mind. And, as Ivan remained nervously silent, the girl presently began:

"First of all--let me thank you for doing--what I asked. I have verylittle time, now. I must catch the train at one o'clock. --It has justbeen put on, you know: and I believe Fóma Vassilyitch got it donefor--for me. He doesn't know, of course, that I am in this tent. Grigory, his orderly, is always sent to Krasnoë with me. But Grigory ismy friend; and has always let me go and come alone. --I cannot endurethe--the stares, the whispers of the men; and the awful scandal! But Icame here, Lieutenant Gregoriev, to tell you the truth about myself. "

"Sit down, mademoiselle, I beg of you! And let me take your cloak. --So. Now may I offer you anything?--A glass of claret?"

"Nothing, thank you! I must tell you--about myself, and ask your advicebefore I go. For I have no one in the world to help me. Listen:

"You think, of course, that I am--a dreadful woman. But I swear to you, by the Virgin, by the spirit of my mother, that I am--as yet---absolutely innocent of the wrong I am being forced into! You do not knowthe struggle I have made! You don't know what I endured before Iconsented to receive Colonel Brodsky's help, two years ago; and again, before I would let him visit me in Petersburg; and then before I camehere--_here_, to this place, where every man in the camp thinks me--Oh!I believe, now, that _that_ is why my father insisted:--that, knowingwhat every one thought of me, I might become reckless, and--let go. ButI will not--never!--for _that_ creature!" Irina's eyes blazed and hervoice grew vibrant with passionate anger. 

"Pardon, Lieutenant. I will try to tell the story quietly, now. You mustknow that we are very poor. My mother is dead; my brother in Moscow; andI was left to keep the three rooms that my father could afford to rentwith his wages from the orchestra and the few lessons he gives. Twoyears ago, when I was sixteen, they discovered that I had a voice. Myfather, delighted, first gave me lessons himself; and then took me tothe Conservatoire, to Zaremba, I hoped there to get a scholarship. Butsomehow my voice didn't develop as they hoped; and, at the competition, I failed. I was in despair. We already owed money for my lessons; andthere was no hope of my earning anything. All my work seemed wasted. Itwas then, of course, that Colonel Brodsky--he had just had hispromotion--came to my father about me. --He had been watching me formonths, he says. --At that time, I knew nothing about it:--about thehorrible promises my father made him, when he proposed to finish mymusical education, and secure me a début at the opera. --They say nowthat my voice isn't nearly big enough for great parts. But at that time, I never knew this. I planned all sorts of splendid things that I was todo as a prima-donna; and I never dreamed that I couldn't pay everythingI owed to--_him_!

"And now--" she gave a dreary little laugh--"now, look at me! I've notonly ruined myself and my father, but even a whole regiment!--My God, Monsieur Gregoriev, what can I do? I have refused and refused andrefused that hideous man. But my father owes him nearly five thousandroubles for my lessons and my theatrical wardrobe; and we cannotpossibly pay him. He is willing to cancel the debt in another way:--theway you know. In fact, that is what he has intended all along. My fathercares nothing for my feelings. He is as furious with me as is Brodsky. And I can't imagine how I have managed to keep away from him for solong. --Ah! If it were--if it were only easier to _die_!--But I'm acoward, you see. "

"I do not think you are a coward, mademoiselle, " replied Ivan, gravely. 

"Ah, monsieur, you do not know! Months ago I understood that the worldhas no room for a young woman who is poor and yet--not ugly. We shouldbe better out of it. "

"If you are sure that your case is as serious as this, you will notrefuse me the pleasure you can give--"

"Monsieur!" Irina sprang to her feet, her eyes brilliant with anger. 

"You misunderstand me, mademoiselle, entirely!" cried Ivan, horrified ather interpretation of his words. "What I mean is this. Your father is indebt, on your account, to a man who has proved himself dishonorable. Ipropose to free you from persecution by transferring that debt to onewho will take nothing but honorable payment--at any convenient time, inamounts of any size that you or your father find yourselves able to pay. Here, at once, Mademoiselle Irina, I will give you five thousand roublesin notes, with which you can discharge your obligations to Brodsky, andrepay me at your leisure. "

The ensuing five minutes proved even more distressing than Ivan, anticipating them, had feared. The young lady was of a temperament bothemotional and dramatic. And her behavior, to a man to whom scenes wereabhorrent, proved trying in the extreme. In the end, after the amount ofprotestation and rather affected timidity which she evidently thoughtproper, Ivan's offer was accepted; and the expression of her gratitudethat followed, caused Ivan to terminate the business somewhat brusquelyby calling the lady's attention to the time, and then escorting her towithin a hundred yards of the station. That her relief was genuine anddeep she proved, by persisting in explanations of what Ivan's act mustmean to her; but he regained a certain amount of his usualunconsciousness, upon perceiving that she was really talking as much toherself as to him, as she laid out her plans of payment and magnificentschemes for her own subsequent career. It was to his own astonishmentthat her benefactor, finally bidding her good-bye, found himself askingfor her Petersburg address--which proved to be a humble street onVassily Island--and found himself thinking with some pleasure of seeingher again. 

Upon his return to his quarters, moreover, Ivan might have gone furtherthan he did in his little analysis of the adventures of the evening. Aman more versed in feminine ways than he, might have read much in themanner of the lady's farewell to him. For her attitude was ingenuousenough to have suggested the fact that had Lieutenant Gregoriev and notColonel Brodsky been the original holder of her debt, the damsel'sattitude might have been less unyielding. But Ivan had still his boyishbelief in the perfection of all woman nature. And certainly that part ofMademoiselle Petrovna's career which he knew best, was of a nature toincrease the strength of his faith. 

It was nearly morning before the young officer could banish the subjectfrom his thoughts--thoughts which had now returned to the disagreeablecertainty of an approaching scene with his redoubtable Colonel. But whende Windt, agog with curiosity, re-entered his own quarters, his comradewas sleeping so peacefully that he could not find it in his heart todisturb Ivan till the _reveille_ roused the camp. 

While Ivan dressed, he and de Windt held a hurried conversation. A fewwords sufficed to inform the other of the mission of the lady; but Ivanwas as amazed as he was displeased at de Windt's frankly expressedsurprise at the undeniable uprightness of the young lady's attitude. There followed a consultation as to any possible retaliation on the partof Brodsky. On this point de Windt, ignorant of the nature of Ivan'spower, was not sanguine. Thus it was that as he hurried off to review, Ivan's courage was at low ebb; and for the first time he began, in hissecret heart, to doubt the possible efficacy of his father's knowledge. 

As it happened, that doubt proved unfounded. Once again, as a hundredtimes before, the powers of Prince Gregoriev were put to the test andnot found wanting. Perfect knowledge of the universal corruption, thegigantic systems of graft which, then as now, ate into the veryfoundation of that ill-arranged bureaucracy which governed the country, was at the finger-ends of Gregoriev, himself so besmirched by that blackevil by which he had risen to power. And in his notes of the deeds ofpossible victims, the writing below the name of Brodsky--who, though hisofficial position was not high, was a man of large fortune and, therefore, valuable to Gregoriev's purpose--occupied a surprising amountof space. 

The second interview between the Colonel and his Lieutenant took placethree days after that first one, in which the unexpected presence of alady had prevented Ivan from giving his opponent so much as a suggestionof his vantage-point. It came about thus. When Brodsky, already in astate of impotent wrath at the audacity of his officer's reproof, received from Ivan's orderly the full sum of Petrovna's debt, togetherwith a highly imprudent letter from Mademoiselle Irina, who did notscruple to mention the name of her benefactor, the man's rage becamephysically dangerous to himself. It did not however prevent him fromrealizing the certainty of exposure of his own criminal folly which mustfollow any attempt of his to disgrace Ivan on a trumped-up charge. Butan interview with the Lieutenant in which he could vent some of hisspleen in abusive threats, would be perfectly safe, and also a source ofrelief. Wherefore, a half-hour after the receipt of the foolish woman'sletter, Lieutenant Gregoriev and Colonel Brodsky stood face to face inthe Colonel's tent. 

It was an hour before Ivan emerged, his figure erect, his face calm, save for a rather bitter little smile which played round the corners ofhis mouth. At some yards from the closed tent, he paused to speak toGrigory, Brodsky's orderly, who stood, as usual, on guard, but at aprescribed distance. 

"Grigory, I think the Colonel needs your assistance. He is indisposed;and you would do well to get him a drink of _vodka_. "

The man, to whom the whole progress of recent events was perfectly wellknown, forgot his salute, and stood, open-mouthed, staring after thisincomprehensible young man. It was five minutes before he entered hischief's tent with the liquor, and found there matter enough to doublehis perturbation. What in the world had been done to change thatbawling, swearing, furious and malignant man, who had ordered asubordinate to his tent with a manner spelling disgrace to the unhappyoffender, into this broken, white-faced, tremulous, sweating creature, who actually thanked his servant for service done: a thing which, duringGrigory's four years of service, had never happened before?

If the Colonel's orderly asked himself this question and found no answerto it, how much more did the matter puzzle the other men and officers ofthe Second Grenadiers, and, gradually, as the change in Brodsky and hisregiment became known, the entire camp? To the Colonel's relievedastonishment, he met with neither avoidance nor taunts from hissuperiors; nor yet any special disdain from his inferiors. Ivan, actingup to his own standard, had told the secret of that interview to no one, not even de Windt, who, however, brooded over his silence as aninjustice. Indeed, if the truth were known, Gregoriev was strangelyregretful of his behavior towards his chief. True, he had had no choice;and he had saved a woman from infamy. But his shame at the deeds of hisfather had marred his life for so many years, that the consciousness ofhaving adopted his father's method, though in an unselfish cause, depressed him unaccountably. And, even had he known, at the time, howbitterly he was afterwards to rue his silence, it is probable that hewould have acted again in precisely the same fashion. 

From this time forth, however, his standing in the regiment rivalledthat of its former commander, now General of their brigade. Not a mannor an officer there but gave him the whole credit for that change forthe better which had begun in the Colonel on the day after his first, plucky interview, and which grew, steadily, throughout the summer, till, at a last dress-parade, held in the presence of the Czar, the Secondactually captured the Iron Medal for drill--which gave them the thirdplace in their army division. Brodsky, when he had nothing else on handto occupy him, was a good officer, and strict to a point of tyranny withregard to dress and the appearance of his regiment. By the time of thegrand reviews he should, had he had the least particle of generosity inhis nature, have forgiven Ivan's victory in his satisfaction over hisrenewed standing in the army and at his clubs. 

Meantime, the remaining weeks of camp life proved to be monotonouslydreary. Ivan was not of the type of man to press his popularity andbatten upon it. Rather, flattery, and the inevitable toadyism of weakernatures, revolted him; and he began once more to retire into himself, and to live again with dreams, which now formed themselves round any oneof three topics: first and highest, his music, at which he had begunagain to work; secondly, the sweetest of the three, Nathalie, of whom hethought as of some rare and lovely flower, not to be plucked by humanhands; lastly, at first rarely, later far more often, round that girlwhom he had come to regard in a measure as his protégée--Irina, whom hesaw twice during the summer, and whose father, though he had paid twosmall instalments on his debt, had begun, (to Irina's secret delight, and Ivan's persistent blindness), to regard the handsome young officer("whose father was a millionaire prince") as an excellent successor tothe fallen Brodsky. 

The one important fact of these weeks, however, and the one having mostto do with the young man's subsequent career, was the time which hespent, in his solitary evenings, over his musical note-books. Theabsence of a piano sharpened his faculties amazingly; till, by the timeof his return to civilization, an instrument was no longer necessary tohim in composing. Ivan was beginning, at last, to know the faces of hissecret gods; and to be not a little troubled at the anomalous positionof an army officer, whose dreams and ambitions were all towards the artsof peace. How, indeed, was he now to reach the realm of these heavenlybeings? For always, in the midst of his highest flights, there loweredabove him, blotting out the gleaming spires of his Parnassus, the darkforms of those demi-gods into whose service he had been forced. And morethan once, in his high solitude, Ivan heard, in the secret chamber ofhis soul, a strong voice of command bidding him leave this present life, drop every vanity of his existence, and set out boldly along that steeppath that should lead him at last, through hardship and labor, tosummits of the highest joy that can be known to human heart and brain. Then, puzzled and disturbed by his sense of the responsibility of hissolitude, Ivan would perform by day his mechanical duties, and thenhurry away, at evening, to labor undisturbed through the strangenorthern twilights, at his chosen task. 

CHAPTER IX

"HALF-GODS GO"

Ivan made no mistake in these personal equations of his; but he managedone very bad one when, in his heart, he thought of fate, or destiny, orcircumstance, as leaving all responsibility of decision to him, thusshirking its generally acknowledged business. Had this chosen sonharbored no such audacity, perhaps the rearrangement of Ivan's life, necessary though it had now become, might have been gradually wrought. As it was, the fellow must be given a double lesson, and forced to learnit well:--by heart, in all probability. Nor must it fail to stretch hispowers of apprehension to their fullest extent. Wherefore, in the earlyautumn, the giant wheel that is not turned by chance, began to revolvefor Ivan, very slowly, without apparent aim in its pristine movements. 

Summer was gone. The five great camps in the Empire had been broken afortnight before; and officers and men alike began to let their backsrelax a little, and were taking less notice of dust-flecks on theiruniforms. In the suburbs, at Tsarskoë-Selo, for instance, there were nowmany villas whose eyes had closed for the night of winter--theirrecently open windows and doors being dismally boarded over; while theiraristocratic owners were indulging in a last informal holiday at someone of the foreign Spas, before the serious business of winter sleighingand court balls should recommence. This year there was, however, lessflitting than usual; for men in high places had been made to understandthe full significance of an imperial whisper that the ministers andtheir aides remain in close touch with Peterhof and the Hermitage. Europe was under a tension of hope--and fear. And the Bear and the Lioncrouched face to face, every muscle rigid, eyes glued upon each other, ears strained to catch every faintest echo from the booming of northernguns in that far-off land where America lay, already torn and bleedingwith the first lacerations of her terrible inward strife. 

In the first week of September, Lieutenant Gregoriev, returning from avisit to his father in Moscow, rejoined Captain de Windt in theirapartment in the little Peréolouk. --Thus the court journal: whereby theyoung man should have perceived himself to have ascended at least onemore round of the social ladder. If he did not realize this, however, Ivan was still in a very excellent frame of mind. His stay with hisfather had been pleasanter than he had hoped; for Prince Michael, whobegan to see his every ambition realized in the probable future of hisson, had been more agreeable to him than ever before, and absolutelymagnificent in his generosity. Ivan felt a little thrill of amazementevery time he recalled the amount of money at his command. Moreover, here was a new season coming on; and one that promised him delightuntold. For was it not to bring the début of his cousin Nathalie? She, light of his dreams, no longer to be shut away from his eyes, or voice, or even--speak of it reverently!--arms, perhaps--stood where he hadstood a year before: on the threshold of the ballroom of youth. Theworld was to know her well; for her mother, always advocate of the_dernier cri de la mode_, had decided, months before, that she, like adozen ladies of the highest Russian world, would adopt, for herdaughter, the English fashion; and actually allow her, before hermarriage, to face the living world of men and things. At the first courtball of the season she should be presented to her sovereigns; afterwhich it would be understood that the charming child was in thematrimonial market, ready to be knocked down to the highest bidder. 

Had her cousin Ivan, who scarcely regarded her presentation in thisharsh and vulgar light, thrilled at the prospect of her first appearancethere, how much more must it mean to the damsel herself, who, in all hergirlish dreams of the freedom of womanhood, had never dared picture thepossibility of such liberty before the event of marriage? During thecoming season there were to be introduced half a dozen other young girlsof her own station, who had even been in her own class at the Institute. And more than once this true daughter of the world had laughinglyreviewed her possible rivals, either to herself, or to her interestedmaid. There were Mademoiselle Cherneskovsky, with her long, skinny neck;and Alexandra Nikitenko, whose red face and fat figure could notpossibly be forgotten in the good-nature of her disposition, any morethan the immense wealth of the only daughter of the Shúlka-Mirskiescould compensate for her thin, colorless hair, and pale, red-rimmed eyeswith their invisible white lashes. Finally, there was Olga Tarentino, whose blonde stateliness might prove dangerous, so long as she couldkeep from a betrayal of her vixenish temper. But pretty Nathalie, remembering the furious recklessness of this, laughed as she lifted hergolden-framed hand-glass, and accepted, complacently, the ready flatteryof smooth-tongued Antoinette. 

Nor, seeing this young girl as she stood, surrounded by her mother, twomaids, and half a dozen adoring serfs, on the evening of November 12th, in the year 1862, could any one have blamed her, very strongly, for hergay vanity. Lovelier vision than this surely never graced the somewhatbare corridors of the labyrinthine Hermitage! For this was the night ofher début, when Nathalie was to make her first courtesies to royalty. 

She was dressed in the prescribed court costume--which was to prove sotrying to the objects of her naughty ridicule. Upon her, the highkakoshnik, with its jewelled rim, and the floating veil that softened sobeautifully the great weight of her braids, proved startlinglybeautiful. And, with a neck like hers, what more desirable than thedaring décolletage of her white tulle gown, from the billowing skirts ofwhich her tiny waist sprang like the slender stem of a huge, white rose. About her throat was clasped a double row of pearls--her father's giftto her for the great occasion. And, in her arms, --last, daring touch ofher Countess-mother, who, in the matter of dress, was a consummateartist, --Nathalie carried a great cluster of vivid crimson camellias, that gave a perfect finish to a costume now relieved from any suspicionof monotony, or too conventional simplicity. The red of the waxencamellia, vividly transparent as it was, was scarce redder than theunroughed cheeks and lips of their bearer. Nor was the brilliantsparkling of the diamonds in the kakoshnik inadequately reproduced inthe light of those changing eyes, which, to-night, glowed large and darkwith steady, living fire. 

Caroline, Countess Dravikine, gazing critically at her daughter'sfinished figure, felt her heart glow within her. Who could reproach herfor exploiting such beauty before marriage? For at sight of Nathalieto-night, an Emperor himself could scarce have reproached his son fordesiring the hand of so exquisite a creature. And, with her own greatskill as a firm basis for the girl's charming ingenuousness, reflectedher mother, what alliance would prove impossible to her now? For, evenin her mother-love, this odd woman was filled with the selfishness of avery empty vanity. And it seemed now as if, with the death of herunhappy sister, there had also died in Madame Dravikine the last vestigeof unworldliness. 

The Hermitage that night proved a fitting field for her generalship. Theevent so long dreaded by her as the seeming end of her own youth, wassuddenly turned into a double triumph. For, as Nathalie passed throughthe long _salons_, she was followed by such a trail of whispers, envious, malicious, amazed, from the women, universally applausive fromthe men, that the Countess suddenly realized that she held in her handsa new instrument of power; one greater than she had ever wielded before. Moreover, before an hour was gone, she knew well that she had beenvindicated of any suggestion of mistake in having adopted the Englishrather than the French form in introducing her daughter. For his Majestyexclaimed, delightedly, as he personally lifted the débutante from herthird low and graceful courtesy; and the Empress, most charming, mostgentle, most refined of women, kissed the young girl on the cheek with acompliment that made Princess Shúlka-Mirski scowl with displeasure--herown daughter having received no more than the conventionalacknowledgment. Later, as Nathalie, her cheeks burning, her big eyescast down, backed slowly from the room, still prostrating herself atintervals, every woman present _felt_ that little, insensible murmur ofapplause that came from every member of the royal circle--thegrand-dukes indeed attempting no concealment of their admiration. 

The great formality over, Mademoiselle Nathalie was bestowed upon herown, voluntary subjects: a throng of brilliantly uniformed men, amongwhom already--oh remarkable girlhood!--Nathalie's eyes were eagerlysearching, for a certain one. He was there; and presently, catching thatlook, he came to her: the handsome, black-eyed cousin, whose heart wasthrobbing for and with her. And her triumphant mother would have beendismayed indeed had she known that all that evening, throughout herunprecedented success, Nathalie had moved and spoken and blushed andbeen still for one alone, whose eyes, from the moment of her entry intothe royal presence, she had felt upon her!

How this feeling had come, whence it sprang, whereon been nourished, grown, who could say? Certainly not the maiden herself. Indeed, untilthis night, she had not given Ivan his rightful place with her. Buthenceforth she was to hold his image in her heart, and, sleeping andwaking, it was to be with her, her delight, her anguish, her wonderment. 

Already she had given all that was in her to give. She was totallyinexperienced. But he had at last, and recently, tasted the forbiddenapple. And already there had risen in him such a host of fierce, conflicting passions as left him half frightened at the forbiddenpossibilities now thronging his heart. To-night, as he looked into theeyes of this pure and exquisite girl, there rushed upon him allsuddenly, the real meaning of man-love; the fulness thereof; the fury ofperfected passion: the union of love and of desire. 

Poor Ivan! The evening held things other than delight for him. As he satbeside his cousin, talked to her, held her in his arms during one of thewild, Russian mazurkas, he felt his body tremble with the terrible forcewithin him. And once the little form he held twisted, suddenly, in hisembrace. Nathalie cried out, and looked up at him; and he realized thathis strong clasp had hurt her. His look answered hers. Then the childlowered her eyes, while a furious color dyed her cheeks and neck; andIvan could have shouted aloud at what he saw and knew. Confidently hedemanded of her more dances, and more and more. And she granted themmechanically, neither thinking nor caring for appearances, nor for anyother person in those rooms. She was like one in a dream. Vladimir deWindt, marvelling at the recklessness of the affair, came once to thetwain, thinking to expostulate with Ivan. But what he saw in the twofaces turned blankly upon him, filled him with such sudden perceptionthat he stumbled through an excuse, and went off to seek some spot wherehe could think; saying to himself, as he went:

"Good God! Who would have believed he could love like that!--and shealso!"

But there were others in those rooms who had not his insight. And itcame finally to the remembrance of Madame Dravikine, in the midst of amost amusing _tête-à-tête_, that she was no longer a free agent atballs: that she was chaperoning a daughter who appeared to be alarminglyunconventional. Leaning upon the arm of her titled companion, MadameDravikine went forth to fulfil the first scheme of Ivan's relentlessdestiny. 

Lieutenant Gregoriev and his cousin had finally retreated to a small andempty antechamber, where the strains of the distant band came in a softecho to their ears. Ivan was leaning forward, in front of the girl, whose eyes were lowered. A moment before his right hand had closed, gently, over her own unresisting one; and the words he was speakingwould have been inaudible to any one two yards away. Nathalie was withhim in another world. At her feet, forgotten, lay the camellias, lookinglike a splash of blood upon the slippery floor. Ivan's head was swimmingas he talked. But, in the midst of a sentence, he saw his companion givea great start. Then she snatched her hand from his, pushed him aside, and rose, unsteadily, her face deathly white. Ivan, noting the flowers, stooped for them, and, ere he returned them to her, detached one, andthrust it into the pocket of his uniform. Then he lifted his look tomeet the blazing eyes of his aunt, and the cynical smile of a tall, gold-laced man, whose breast was covered with orders, and whose mustacheand imperial were known to and hated by all Petersburg; for PrinceFéodoreff was a person whose _penchant_ for feminine youth and beautyhad carried him into many walks of life. 

The present little scene was interesting, but brief. Ivan never knew howit was that Nathalie was presently disappearing through a doorway on thearm of this man; her much-abused bouquet, held by one ribbon in herlistless right hand, trailing eloquently upon the ground; while he, furious, but still dizzy from unwonted emotion, stood facing his aunt. When her cold look had become intolerable to him, she added to it hervoice; saying, in a tone he had never heard from her:

"It is a pity I am forced to understand that my daughter is not to betrusted with her cousin, even for one hour, --in a royal palace!"

With this she would have turned away. But something in Ivan's eyesstopped her, despite her justified anger. 

"Mademoiselle Nathalie Alexeiovna is to be trusted with any one, anywhere, for any length of time. But with no one could she ever besafer than with me, madame!" he said, passionately. 

"Ah! And your method of taking care of her, is to manage so that sheshall be criticised, commented on, laughed at by the entire court duringthe first hour of the first evening of her appearance in theworld!--Were you not a baby, Ivan, I should think you either mad ordishonorable!--As it is, I am glad to have discovered what you are sosoon; though it will take months to regain for my unfortunate daughterthe position she has lost through your preposterous behavior. I shalltake good care, however, that she never again endangers her reputationby receiving any sort of attention from you, in any place, at home orabroad. --You will do well not to offer it, Ivan Mikhailovitch; for Icannot have my daughter's name linked with that of a Gregoriev!" Withwhich brutal thrust this great lady turned coolly away, leaving Ivan, stuttering with rage, behind her. 

 * * * * *

Thus, upon the first possible occasion, did Ivan ruin his winter. Norcan it be said that he had not brought his punishment upon his own head, by conduct so recklessly inconsiderate, that, considering the custom ofhis country, it could scarcely be called that of a gentleman. MadameDravikine had been justified in the first part of her reproof; thoughnothing, probably, could have excused the bitter insult of her finaltaunt. For that, indeed, holding, as it did, a reproof of her deadsister, her conscience pricked her more than once. But it had no effecton the chaperonage now imposed by her upon her hapless daughter. Never, perhaps, was heavier price paid by two offenders for the folly of asingle hour. 

After the night of November 12th, any man in Petersburg could gainaudience of Mademoiselle Dravikine more easily than the one man whomMademoiselle Dravikine cared to see. Nathalie, indeed, made herselfmiserable enough over the situation to have warmed Ivan's heart, couldhe have known the fact. Her longed-for world--that wonder-land of whichshe had dreamed so long, for which she had been so assiduously prepared, was not wonderful to her now. To her eyes, the gilding over the ironbars was very thin: the perfumed padding on the stone walls but a poordisguise of their chill impenetrability. Nor could she find in her guideand mentor--that mother, whom she so little knew, --either comfort orrefuge in her unhappiness. Madame Dravikine, indeed, was disgusted anddisappointed. The tale of Ivan's mad devotion and of her daughter'simprudence, had spread through the city, losing nothing in the telling. And Nathalie's open stubbornness and rebellion confirmed it only tooclearly. To her mother's mind, Nathalie was behaving in an imbecilefashion. Suppose _she_ had acted in such a way, when, as MademoiselleBlashkov of Moscow, she had been besieged by a handsome, impecuniousyoung officer; and, instead of throwing him over for the wealthy youngCount Dravikine, had capped her sister's black marriage by one wildlyimprovident? Besides, she was not without serious plans with regard toher daughter, even in these first weeks of her first season. But no planseemed possible of fulfilment when, night after night, Nathalie wouldmake a dutiful, dejected appearance in some fashionable _salon_, andwould sit, drooping and visibly wretched, wherever she was put, unless, by some unlucky chance, she caught a glimpse of the white and gold ofIvan's uniform. Then her sudden wild vivacity would fill her mother withhelpless rage; and she would wait and watch, while a roomful smiled, andthe rows of diamond-laden dowagers shook their heads and lifted theireyebrows solemnly towards the oblivious girl, whom no sarcastic comment, no openly insulting interpretation of her open preference, could, apparently, make her understand the importance of a union of family andfortune in the bridegroom of Mademoiselle Dravikine. Moreover, it wouldsound really incredible were one to make a positive statement of thenumber of nights throughout which this silly child lay sobbing, in thekindly darkness of her bedchamber, till the approach of late-rising dawnbrought a brief forgetfulness of her unquestionably ridiculous littletrial. 

Perhaps, after all, it is rather pitiful that this calf-love, confidentlyderided by omniscient, sensible middle-age, should be so tender and sobeautiful a thing. Once it is crushed out of us, we are not likely everagain to be burdened with a feeling at all similar to it. Nor is itoften tough-fibred enough to weather the stress of the first years ofmarried life; and come through the equinoctials of the inevitableadjustment unshattered and unwrecked. And yet--how much would not mostwomen give to feel once more the fine, ecstatic shiver of that first, foolish kiss? And the dreams of this period--how fair, how delicate, howfragile--how utterly impractical they are! What beauties are notconjured up by the imagination, during those delicious, sleeplessnights; only to be dissipated into chilling mist by the stern realitiesof the relentless morning?

There is a very old, very trite philosophy that can be made to replacesuch a state of mind. Most young men of twenty-five are gloating overit: feeling themselves sad cynics, suffering from a tragic past. Unbearable to others this stage may be. But it is a pleasant haven tothe individual anchored there, safe from the recent storms ofdisillusionment. By January, poor Vladimir de Windt began to long forthe first signs of this state in his companion. Ivan was, certainly, ina preposterous mood; and had not even grace enough to appreciate thelong-suffering patience of his friend, who listened, with unfailingcourtesy, to his eternal ravings over the nameless but perfectlywell-known object of his undying adoration. There did, however, finallycome a day when Vladimir's despairing wishes met with a kind offulfilment. 

About noon on January 16th, Ivan, returning from a morning at theriding-school, passed the church of St. Simeon. Noting the effect of thecandle-flames on the velvet darkness of that part of the interiorvisible through the open portals, and remembering that it was anespecial saint's day, he entered, thinking to kneel for a moment behindthe throng of men and women by whom the church was nearly filled. Suddenly, before he had chosen his place, he was aware of an intenseemotion. Ere he had time to analyze it, there came a light touch on hisarm, and he turned to face his cousin, Nathalie, wrapped in the softsables that matched the momentary shade of her eyes. Behind her a youngserf, Anitchka, a foolish and romantic creature, bobbed and grinned withpleased excitement. 

Instantly Ivan saw his opportunity. A moment later Nathalie's attendant, with a piece of gold in her hand, was forcing her way to a place nearthe altar, whence prayers for her benefactor would presently rise. Meantime Ivan had turned, eagerly, tremulously, to the young girl. 

"Natusha!--The saints have heard me at last!--Oh Natusha, --Natusha!" Itseemed as if that endearing diminutive could not leave his lips, so didhe linger over it, while he pressed her small, gloved hands passionatelybetween his bare ones. 

"Oh Ivan--I am glad!--But I am afraid, too! I must tell you--everything. And then we will say good-bye!"

"No!" She started at the fierceness of that monosyllable. "Not'good-bye. '--Not yet!--Not yet!"

"Yes, Ivan. I am too unhappy. I must--I have _got_ to stop thinkingabout you. --It is too hard, too miserable, the other way. --And I knowthey will never let you see me again. "

Ivan's reply was a tightening of his clasp on her hands. Then he benthis head, while his brows were knitted, anxiously. It seemed as if hecould not speak. And she had opened her lips to comfort him a littlewhen he burst forth, huskily:

"Nathalie, I love you better than life! Will you marry me?"

"Oh!--Ivan!" The child trembled. She would have drawn away, but that heheld her tightly and strove to look into her face. Then, suddenly, shegrew braver, and let her eyes meet his. In the rose-red of her fairface he read, ecstatically, his answer. But he was to have yet more. Unknowing that he had read her thought, she found her voice andwhispered: "Yes!"

And then, in a second, he had kissed her, upon the mouth, there in thedusk of the little, empty chapel. Whereafter, indeed, she would havetorn herself from him, had he not drawn her arm through his, and startedforward, saying, in her ear:

"Come, my dear! We are betrothed. You belong to me, henceforth. And weare in a church. Let us go and see if they will marry us, here, now. --Ibelieve God gave you to me just now for this very thing. And--"

But Ivan had at last got beyond her courage. It was a daring thing hehad proposed; and he had not paused to reflect that, considering thelaws of their stern faith, so hasty an affair would be impossible. Perhaps, then, Ivan had some right to be bitterly disappointed at hervehement protests. How could he understand that, even with her, thesigns and formalities, the insignia and paraphernalia of a fashionablemarriage, even more than marriage itself, form, in the mind of a younggirl, the grand aim, centre, end, even, of all life. And he was askingher to forget all these!--Preposterous--love him though she did! No. They were engaged. That she allowed. And was not that enough for oneday?--Ivan could not gainsay her. --Well, then, let him come at once toher father. And perhaps on the morrow--the wonderful morrow--the courtjournal would make formal announcement of their betrothal, and she wouldbe that most interesting (?) of feminine creatures, a girl engaged!

Thus she talked: thus dreamed. And Ivan, in a little paradise of hisown, was drawn, in spite of himself, into her spirit of enthusiasm. Hepromised to go, that very evening, to his uncle. And so, at length, heleft her, half a block from the Dravikine house, and went his waytowards his apartment, already beginning on the fourth year of hismarried life. 

 * * * * *

It was half-past eight o'clock that evening when Lieutenant Gregoriev, shivering with something more than cold, stood at the door of theDravikine house. When it opened, he was informed at once that Monsieurle Comte was at home; and the impenetrable butler, bursting withinterest, showed him solemnly to the library, on the threshold of whichstood Ivan's shadowy fate, black-robed. For five minutes the Lieutenantwaited, his heart in his mouth, his dry tongue vainly trying to repeatthat careful little speech, the original of which he had unfortunatelyleft on the bureau of his room in his own apartment. 

In the small _salon_ of that apartment, meantime, sat Vladimir de Windt, waiting, uneasily, and making futile attempts to read. For Ivan's sakehe was neglecting all his engagements for the evening and the night, that he might be the first to congratulate his chum on his engagement. The minutes passed. More than an hour, now, since Ivan had bidden him ashaky good-night! And the longer the wait, the more hopeful things mustnaturally look. An accepted man sits late with his _fiancée_, discussingthe most important question in the world, while the serfs groupthemselves intelligently round the key-hole. And yet, as the clockticked off second after second, the faithful Vladimir grew unaccountablyfretful and restless. Time was, indeed, when the circumstances of thiswait had been more painful than now. For, in the early half of thewinter, the ingenuous Nathalie had made some little havoc with theusually well-ordered mind and heart of Monsieur de Windt. But from thefirst Ivan had confided in his friend. And that friend was an honorableman. As the days of poor Ivan's exile passed, and his misery had grown, de Windt found his sympathy gradually overcoming his sentiment. Moreover, Nathalie's drooping young face, familiar to him through manyballs and receptions, showed the mind of the young girl too plainly formistake. In so far as in her lay, she returned her cousin's love. ByDecember, Captain de Windt had set himself seriously to subdue hislittle _penchant_; and such was his success that, as he sat waiting hereto-night, his heart was sincerely with Ivan. Yet it was not sounremarkable that when, at a little before eleven, he watched a sleighpull up at the door below and saw Ivan alight from it, Monsieur de Windtshould be glad of the three flights of stairs that would assure perfectsteadiness in the voice that must cry out the heartiest ofcongratulations. 

Even to de Windt, however, Ivan was a long time ascending those stairs. Was this the manner of a man triumphant? Was the step, now audible--thatheavy, dragging step, --the pace of a happy man? De Windt's heart beatslower. His face grew grave. And then, --the door opened; and Ivan cameinto the room. 

He walked very slowly to a sofa in the corner, and removed his outerwrappings, piece by piece, flinging them down on floor or furniture. Then he turned and came back to the hot porcelain stove by which deWindt had been sitting, dropped into a chair, drooped his head for amoment to his breast, but finally lifted his face and looked squarely athis friend. Good Heaven!--Could calf-love do that to a boyish face?--Wasit really Ivan, this gray-hued, inexpressibly weary man, with the dull, expressionless eyes, and the mouth drawn into so ugly aline?--Calf-love?--Impossible!

The oppressive silence grew heavier and more heavy. Ivan continued tostare; but it was into vacancy now. He was greatly startled when he felta hand touch his shoulder: a hand whose gentleness bespoke a sympathythat was very deep. De Windt had certainly not foreseen the effect ofhis involuntary act. At the gesture, Ivan started, as if he had beenshot. Then he drew himself away, violently, and sprang to his feet, turning on his friend:

"Don't!--My God! Are you going to _show_ me your pity?--_Me?_--AGregoriev?--Humph!" He broke into an abominable little laugh. "_They_didn't give me much, Vladimir Vassilyitch! I heard from themall--Monsieur le Comte first; then my remarkable aunt; finally--finallyfrom Mademoiselle Dravikine herself. Yes. At the end she came:--notalone! They led her in, you understand. She didn't look especiallypretty. Her eyes were ridiculously red. Her voice was very husky; butshe had got her part well, and she spoke it to me. Her expression mighthave been better; but she'll improve with practice. --There may be otherfools in the world, you know, who haven't realized what a crime it isnot to have ten irreproachably noble grandfathers. 

"She--Mademoiselle Dravikine--asked my pardon for her shocking behaviorof the morning. She had made a great mistake, she said. Upon dueconsideration, she perceived how impossible it would be to avail herselfof my offer; because, to mention one of many reasons, of our nearrelationship. Nevertheless, she thanked me for my generosity incountenancing her most unwise action; trusted that the reversal of herreply would cause me no inconvenience; _inconvenience_, Vladimir, do youhear!--and so wished me good-night!--_That_ was my finalanswer!--Afterwards, I had a few more words with the others; but I'veforgotten what they were. --_She_, who let me kiss her, this morning, twice, --she spoke like _that_, to me!"

"Oh but Ivan, --my dear fellow, they evidently discovered your meetingthis morning, and made her do this--little fool!"

"Oh, they found out about it, certainly. --My aunt saw her come inalone--without the serf. And it was she, of course--my aunt is a verystrong person, Vladimir--who arranged my charming reception. Dravikinehimself was quite civil to me. I could have stood his refusal of myoffer. --And he looked uncomfortable, too, afterwards, when--hiswife--came down and began to talk. It took her nearly an hour, Ibelieve, to explain the immensity of my presumption. --I'm so beneathher, you know, her father being only my grandfather. --And, last of all, she had the pleasure of showing me what she could do with my--with herdaughter. "

"But--but--tell me, have they forbidden you the house?"

"She didn't say so. "

"Oh well, then--it'll be easy! You must carry the girl off!"

Ivan gave a violent start; and, for one instant, the cruel mask droppedfrom his face, leaving an expression wonderfully different. Then all thegray bitterness closed in again. "That would be quite impossible. --Whyman, consider! She herself refused me!"

"Nothing of the sort! This morning she was herself. To-night, she wasrepeating to you her mother's thoughts. They coerced her. --Be a man, myboy; and I'll help you! You two love each other; and you've got tomarry. Do you think you owe _her_ nothing?"

"Vladimir--Vladimir--you want to be kind to me. But you don'tunderstand. You didn't hear--how that woman--insulted my race; my blood;yes--even her own sister, my mother!--You can't ask me to overlookthat--even--for--Nathalie!"

And Ivan's deep groan touched the heart of the man that heard it. 

Nevertheless, de Windt had been struck by the sudden thought he had assuddenly expressed. Marriage with her daughter, would certainly be assure a thrust as could be given to the proud woman who had socauselessly hurt her nephew. After a time the friend pressed this viewupon his companion, till Ivan, in spite of himself, joined in theworking out of a strange idea: an idea of the seventeenth, rather thanthe nineteenth, century; but possible, feasible, for all that. So, inthe end, young Gregoriev sought his bed that night not in blackdepression, but with his brain once more on fire with hope:--hope of anincredibly swift fulfilment of his lately despaired-of heart's desire. 

This sudden frame of mind lasted for three days. And during that lengthof time Ivan went cheerfully about his daily tasks, meantime, in companywith de Windt, working out the details of their secret plan. It was inpursuit of one of these that, on the afternoon of the fourth day, Ivanstood once again on the door-step of the Dravikine house. 

Even in his nervousness Ivan noticed, as he waited, the unusual factthat the shades of the drawing-room were all pulled down. And it seemedto him, too, that there was about the house an air of unwonteddesolation, which, as the minutes passed, certainly became intensifiedin his mind. Once more he sounded the huge knocker; and yet again: thistime so vigorously that the door shook. His sense of calamity had growntill it was a presentiment. Yet his heart rose as, after a long fiveminutes, there came the sounds of fumbling key and grating lock; andthen the door swung open before him, and he stood facing--not the trimlyliveried butler, but the gaunt and stooping figure of Ekaterina, the oldserf, garbed in a soiled working-dress. 

"Madame Dravikine--does she receive to-day?"

"Saints behold us, Lieutenant, she may, for all I know! She and mylittle Natusha--who cried without ceasing for three days and threenights--went away this morning, with all their luggage, to the foreignland by the sea: to Germany, where it's warm, and where they will stay, my lady said, till summer comes again, and they can all go toTsarskoë. --Saints!--You are sick too, young sir!"

But Ivan, refusing her suggestion of a glass of wine, made a few moreinquiries, found that the old woman had no idea of her mistress's realdestination (to the Russian poor all the world west of Russia is"Germany"); and at last turned blindly away and began to walk in thedirection of the nearest "tea-house, " where he could think, unmolested. 

His aunt had, at least, paid him a compliment in this flight. Evidentlyshe was afraid of him--of his poor power!--And little Natusha had criedfor three days and three nights! At thought of this, all the love andall the chivalry in him rose. --That she should be abused because of anact of his!--He ground his heels into the rough, wooden floor of thelittle _traktir_, and began to think more rapidly. --Yes, they shouldhave cause to fear him! Nathalie must be his, since she cared for him ashe for her. It was all very simple. He could find out, without greatdifficulty, where they had gone. Then, at once, he would follow them, and--people had eloped before now!--His father, he knew, would, not bedispleased with the marriage; for he knew Dravikine to be his superiorin rank. At least, there should be money enough, then, always, for hiswife. 

"_Wife!_" The word made his pulses throb. There remained only todiscover his destination, and to get leave of absence from his Colonel. The latter was a mere form, given daily to officers at this season. Hemight as well obtain it at once. --So, paying his small score, he rose, leaving his drink untouched, and started off in the direction of ColonelBrodsky's dwelling. 

It was a strange thing that Ivan, in his confidence of getting awayimmediately, forgot that old, unpaid grudge of his superior officer. Unhappily for him, when he made his request, eagerness was written inevery line of his face. Brodsky listened and looked; paused, smiledmaliciously, and then, with June in his memory, refused the leave ascurtly as possible. Ivan started with amazement. But it was in vain thathe argued, pleaded, raged, finally--imprudence of imprudence! evenhinted at possible recompense. Brodsky, delighting in the pain he knewhimself to be inflicting, became more and more inexorable, more and moreinsulting, till Ivan, angered beyond control, hurled out one furiousepithet, and left the little room--heart-broken. 

The ensuing weeks were ones that Vladimir de Windt, certainly, neverforgot. For forty-nine endless days, until April had once more brokenRussia's icy chains, no word came from the Dravikines; who wereemploying their time in a highly interesting fashion at Nice and Monacowith a party of friends; while Ivan dragged himself about Petersburg, madly seeking some distraction, finding it never. Daily his companionsmarvelled anew at the duration of what was, to them, the pettiest of"affairs. " But Ivan's nature was ridiculously intense; and calf-love hadbecome, in his eyes, the most serious thing in life. At last, when hehad borne all that it seemed to him he could endure, fate offered himthe relief of a sharp stab in the spot where the monotony of acontinuous, dull ache had become intolerable. 

On the morning of April 7th the court journal--and several otherpapers--contained the announcement that "a marriage had been arrangedand would immediately take place between Mademoiselle NathalieDravikine, daughter of, --etc. , and S. A. Alexander Gregory Boris, PrinceFéodoreff, sometime Gentleman of the Bedchamber to his Imperial MajestyNicholas I. " Further down the column came another statement that, owingto the delicate health of the bride-elect, the wedding would be a quietone, celebrated at Nice within the month; whereafter, during the summer, the Prince and Princess Féodoreff would return to Russia by easy stages, probably spending August at Tsarskoë-Selo with the parents of the bride, where the Prince would have time to settle into the new relationshipbetween himself and a lady who had hitherto occupied towards him aposition very different from that of mother-in-law. The beginning of thewinter season would, however, see the Féodoreff residence in theFourchstadskaia open for the occupation of the young Princess. 

Ivan himself discovered these somewhat startling items of intelligence. Later he pursued all the feminine details that appeared concerning thebride's beauty, the magnificence of her trousseau, the wealth andstation of the groom, and even a hint or two of the romantic affair ofthe recent débutante with a cousin, during the past winter. For one weekIvan endured his pain in silence. Then, upon a certain Saturday, he wentto Brodsky again, asking him for leave and a double passport. This timethe Colonel, studying his Lieutenant's face, saw fit to grant both theleave and the second request. Ten minutes after he had entered theofficial room, Ivan left it again, bearing with him the death-warrant ofhis military career. 

Returning to his apartment, the young man held a brief interview with deWindt, who said little, but studied the boy's face anxiously; and, though he attempted neither advice nor remonstrance, finally made atentative suggestion about accompanying his friend. He was notastonished at the rejection of the proposition. But Ivan's ensuingremark afterwards troubled him not a little. 

"Don't worry, Vladimir Vassilyitch. I'm not going alone. There will besome one who will take excellent care of me. "

By an effort, de Windt refrained from questions. But as he watched hiscomrade depart, an hour later, his light luggage strapped on thedroschky behind him, Vladimir's heart was heavy with foreboding. Couldhe have seen Ivan's first destination he might, at last, have attemptedsome active remonstrance; though it is doubtful if he could have madeany impression on Ivan's present mood. Lieutenant Gregoriev drovestraight to a house on Vassily Island: held there a brief butinteresting interview with a certain young woman; and, three hourslater, any one who cared to look might have seen Ivan Gregoriev andIrina Petrovna, with luggage and passports which attempted no deception, leaving Petersburg together on the evening train for Baden-Baden!

 * * * * *

Just what Ivan's intention had been when, in his hour of madness, hecommitted this irreparable and terrible mistake, no one, least of allhimself, could have said. Despair had driven him, for the moment, out ofhis senses. He cared nothing whatever for himself or his reputation, little for that of the woman he would have dragged down with him. In hismind he had some dreary hope that Nathalie, the weak and faithless, would learn of his wretched action and be hurt by it--a little as he hadbeen hurt by her. 

Before the reckless twain had arrived at their all too publicdestination, however, Ivan was in a fever of misery and shame. Wellenough to laugh and say that the thing he proposed to do was so commonas scarce to cause notice in the gay watering-place, always a rendezvousfor the high half-world. But Ivan was, even now, by no means of thiskind: the military members of the Yacht club, to whom such escapadeswere afterwards proudly exploited among their friends. All night long, as he sat upright in his place in the reserved carriage, sleepless, watching the young woman who was reclining opposite him trustfullyunconscious, Ivan was aware of his mother's reproachful presence: andheard again the voice that had rung so dreadfully in his boyish ears:"Remember, Ivan, what I have suffered, through a man! Will youremember?--Will you break the Gregoriev tradition towards women?"

Once again Sophia, gentle woman, did her work. Irina Petrovna opened hereyes, next day, upon a different man. 

Whether the girl were astonished, or pleased, or disappointed, by thestrangeness of her situation during the fortnight in Baden, Ivan couldnot tell. He was perfectly well aware that it would be of no use toexplain their true position to any one he knew. Mockery at his faith intheir credulity at so preposterous a statement, would have been his onlyreward. But it was none the less true that, so long as Irina remainedwith him, she was treated with the punctilious courtesy that he shouldhave used towards her had she been what they pretended her to be: hissister. He had taken three rooms--two bedrooms and a little _salon_--atthe hotel. And the very waiters winked, solemnly, outside the _salon_door, as they served early coffee and, later, an elaborate _déjeuner_, to the two within. But Ivan could meet any eye calmly. And if Irinamarvelled, she said nothing. Only, from this time forth, Ivan occupied, in her secret soul, a niche of his own, far above that of any other man. In later years, many candles burned before her shrine; and it served tokeep within her heart one spot inviolate. The thoughts, the prayers, expended here without sense of conscious virtue, perhaps served herunexpectedly in the end, when before her, hopeless one, a golden gateswung slowly open, and she entered that land where the wretched deeds ofher later life could blacken her thoughts no more. --At the time, certainly, she might have been impatient at the formality of hercompanion's manner, his unfailing deference to her faintest wish. Andyet she was conscious that the days spent in this gay resort were happy:happier than any she had ever known. And even Ivan, in the great anxietyof his soul, found that a conscience unexpectedly clear can bring aspecies of content less fleeting than any causeless light-heartedness. He was giving little thought to others' thought of him. But Petersburgwas dull just now; and his behavior had been a godsend to the_salons_. --Good Heavens--how they were using his name--and hers!

 * * * * *

On the morning of April 30th, Petersburg was still a sea of mud: theatmosphere still thick with rain. Spring was opening slowly. But the icehad gone out of the Neva. Boats plied along the canals. And all theworld was packing away its furs. The day was intensely dreary. But theheart of Vladimir de Windt, who was lounging idly about his desolateapartment, was drearier still. How he missed that foolish Ivan, stilllost in the great unknown! How he railed at him, in secret, the while hebravely defended him, single-handed, against the world; till the daywhen he learned Ivan's prospect of utter calamity and took the knowledgehome with him to bear in solitude. It was a week, now, since the day ofhis own interview with Brodsky. By this time the whole city knewall!--Gregoriev's heart-history had been dragged gayly through the mudof Petersburg society; and at last the curious world might write _finis_upon a completed story--in which the lady was now safely married toanother; the man disgraced and degraded. --But the cause of thisdisgrace, and its injustice, only de Windt knew or cared to know. 

Even he could not guess, however, how Brodsky had discovered theidentity of Ivan's companion. But de Windt had borne the brunt of theColonel's rage when he learned it; and de Windt had endeavored toobtain some sort of softening of the sentence pronounced upon theunhappy boy. --It was vain. And even Vladimir, as he lay once more goingover the rapid events of the past weeks, never dreamed, in his heart, that Ivan was not guilty in a certain way. Men must judge one another bytheir own standards. De Windt had never thought Ivan effeminate--amilk-sop; but, had he been made to believe the truth, it is probable thatone or the other of these epithets would then have expressed his opinionof his friend. 

The first charge made by Brodsky against his Lieutenant was that ofoverstaying his leave--already for the length of seven days, and stillno prospect of return. The second charge, a far more serious one, wasthat of conduct unbecoming an officer of the guard: conduct which, though it might be laid to the door of almost any unmarried officer inthe service, nobody had ever before dreamed of forcing home forjudgment. But at last, it seemed, there was a man willing and ready, forthe sake of an old spite, to risk shattering his own glass house tosplinters for the sake of a revenge. Brodsky was determined, immediatelyupon Ivan's return, to summon him to a court-martial; and, since he wasnot a man to keep silence with regard to his plans, the tale, with itspiquant references to Brodsky's private malice, was in everybody'smouth, and was found spicy enough to sting the palate of the most jadedscandal-monger in the army--in comparison with which that of a woman offifty years' residence in India, is not to be compared. But by the endof April even this affair had been served up often enough to have grownslightly stale; and Petersburg was now on the _qui vive_ for adénouement. 

It came, that dénouement--well-timed: just when the clubs were full tothe brim, the barracks crowded, the city overflowing with _ennuyée_ menand women who were preparing for their summer flight. But the firstscene of the last act was not watched by the outer world. 

It was eleven o'clock on the morning of the 30th. De Windt, growndesperate under the weight of his thoughts, flung his yellow novel intothe empty stove, and had just lounged back to the sofa when--the dooropened, quietly, and Ivan came in: Ivan, rather pale, but verydignified: his head held high. 

Vladimir turned on him, opened his lips, closed them again and gazed, silently, at his comrade. Ivan returned the look for a fewseconds, --stared--read--possibly understood. At all events his facesuddenly quivered, and then--he began to laugh! He passed from oneparoxysm to another, till de Windt, in a blind rage, took him by theshoulders and shook him, violently, to silence. Then, under a swiftreaction, he stood before the prodigal drooping like a school-boy underhis master's frown. But Ivan felt, apparently, no resentment. Presentlyhe went to the side-table, poured himself out three fingers of cognac, drank it, and then, as he began to remove his dripping outer garments, asked, rather briskly than otherwise:

"Well, Vladimir--out with it! What are they going to do about me?"

And Vladimir, half-irritated, but driven, in any case, to speech, told, briefly and baldly, all he had to tell. In ten minutes, Ivan stoodlooking down upon the hopeless, crumbling ruin of his life. 

 * * * * *

In these sudden crises, there are few men philosophic enough, or wiseenough, to look, broadly, back, inward, and ahead, in a calm analysis ofcause, effect and reason. At this time, Ivan certainly knew--had known, for months if not for years, that he was leading a life for which naturehad not fitted him: neglecting a career bestowed upon him by a higherhand than often interferes in the destinies of man. There had been manytimes when, his whole soul yearning over the work to which he coulddevote so little of his best self, he had cried aloud to Heaven tochange his lot--to banish these half-gods that kept his true lord atbay. And now these inarticulate prayers were fully answered:--and Ivan'ssoul was writhing in rebellion at the injustice of that which had beenput upon him: the malicious revenge of a scoundrelly officer who, forprivate reasons, had seen fit to punish him for an offence which wasdaily winked at by the entire army! Indeed, Brodsky's action, which wascertainly justified by the letter but never by the spirit of themilitary code, had caused the military world a quiver of apprehension. They looked on, aghast, at proceedings which they were powerless tostop. But it is safe to say that there was not a man in thecourt-martial who did not blush as he admitted the justice of thesentence finally passed upon the luckless prisoner. The proceedingslasted, altogether, a fortnight; during which time all of Russia and agreat part of Europe rang with the scandal. --Ivan did not even attempt adefence; though Irina, coming to him on the first evening, went down onher knees in her plea to be allowed to save him. Even Ivan's lawyerforesaw the reception of her unsupported statement as against thetestimony of the hotel clerks, boys and waiters brought from Baden byBrodsky himself. In the end, Mademoiselle Petrovna was not permitted toappear at all in court. Ivan's money kept her safely out of Russia, after the second day of the trial. And, while the girl mourned for him, she knew well that her own fortune in the half-world was made. --Suchadvertising as this!--Who could compete with her? Had not the papers inEurope published, twenty times, the picture of the beautiful heroine ofthis unsavory romance?

In the mean time, in Moscow, the chief of the Third Section was aging ayear a day as he raved, helpless and mad with fury, at the folly of hisson and the treacherous villany of Brodsky. Privately, Russianofficialdom was shaken to its depths. But daily the masks were adjusted, and the farce of virtue, within and without that court, went on; whilethe people, even to the peasants, laughed at the mockery of it all. Somesort of compensation, later on, Michael Gregoriev did obtain. In theautumn of that year Fóma Vassilyitch Brodsky went to Siberia, as theresult of an examination of certain peculations, the charge of which, together with overwhelming proof, was brought by Prince Gregoriev ofMoscow. 

But that was a sorry triumph: the victor a broken man. For MichaelGregoriev had lost his son; and, with him, all those great ambitions forwhich he had toiled and cheated and blackmailed throughout a lifetime. 

Finally, on the morning of May 17th, Ivan Gregoriev, degraded from hisrank, driven in disgrace from the army, sat alone in his bedroom conningover the words of the telegram clutched in his listless hand: wordswhereby he understood that he was no longer the son of his father, butsat, a penniless outcast, alone in a pitiless, jeering world. 

CHAPTER X

SELF-DESTINY

Ivan had begun to pay his price--not for a foolish escapade, but for hissonship among the Great that labor and may not rest. It was, perhaps, atardy beginning for a career such as his must be: but it was a completeone, at least. The world lay all before him where to choose:--a blessingwhich he, however, at this moment, appreciated not at all. 

During the past hideous days, it had seemed to Ivan that he was livingwholly in the memory of his cousin. It was the picture of her that hadborne him through the time of dreadful notoriety. But now, on themorning after the receipt of that harsh telegram, Nathalie and all herhistory with him, had passed completely from his mind, as somethingbelonging to a forgotten existence. He rose early, after a restless, feverish night. During the fumbling toilet that followed, he stoppedshort, more than once, to throw himself into the nearest chair appalledand overcome by some fresh view of the situation which he was beginning, only now, fully to realize. Moreover, he was suffering physically. Allthrough the late afternoon and evening of the day before he had satalone with de Windt, in the next room, drinking steadily, till, forperhaps the first time in his life, he had lost consciousness, and couldremember nothing of Vladimir's putting him to bed. 

By the time he entered the little dining-room, where the samovar alreadyhissed upon that cosey table, to which he had sat down upon so manyjoyous, care-free mornings, the light in his eyes was softer, the newlines in his face less rigidly fixed. He was remembering, bit by bit, the details of his recent talk with de Windt, who, heart-broken overIvan's double ruin, and showing far more emotion than Michael's sonhimself, had fairly gone upon his knees to his friend, begging him toshare his private fortune, and swearing that he should challenge everyofficer in the army who uttered one word against their recent comrade. Ivan remembered with relief how, even under the influence of nearly aquart of _vodka_, he had gently refused Vladimir's generosity. From thevery beginning, when, in his numbness, the future had been stillunimaginable, Ivan's course had appeared perfectly clear to him. Castout on all sides, by friends and family alike, he would be beholden tono one in the world. Starve he could, without a murmur, if he did notfind work. But charity--to the amount of one kopeck, one meal, even somuch as a cup of water!--he would accept from no man: no, not fromVladimir de Windt, though he felt towards him as towards a brother. Moreover, he had spent his last night in these dearly familiar rooms;and he had accomplished the difficult task of putting his friend awayfrom him without rousing that friend's antagonism. So much Ivan haddecided, before, as he sat sipping his first cup of tea, de Windtappeared, starting to see his comrade in civilian's dress. Ivan saw thatstart, and understood it; but his voice betrayed no emotion as thecustomary good-mornings passed between them, and de Windt, seatinghimself and beginning to prepare his tea, said, quietly:

"Ivan Mikhailovitch, you have not told me how you are going to begin inthe work you were talking of last night. How are you to get astart?--It's not very paying at best: the least lucrative of all thearts--because it's the highest, I suppose. Now, old fellow, Iunderstand your general stand; but, for Heaven's sake, don't hurt me byrefusing to let me _lend_ you a rouble or two, till you getstarted--have made a little headway, you know!"

Ivan looked up, seriously: "Thank you, my friend. I'm sorry, but eventhat I can't take. It'll be no easier, starting in three months hence, and with a debt on my hands, than now--will it? I've been so pamperedall my life, that I declare it's going to be absolutely a pleasure toappreciate the value of a kopeck I have _earned_. Don't you know, Vladimir Vassilyitch, that most of us would be infinitely stronger menif we had to act men's parts?--Bah! How many thousands are in just mystate to-day, except that, besides themselves, they have a wife andchildren to feed, clothe and shelter?--That _might_ come hard! But if Ican't earn my own living, I have no right to live at all. Why the devilshould I pity myself?" And he gave a short, rather hard, laugh. 

"You might pity yourself, Ivan Mikhailovitch, because you have just hadthree blows about as big as the average man is called upon to bearthroughout his lifetime. The mere fact that you haven't gone underaltogether, says a good deal for your manliness. 

"I've been thinking, half the night, about your future: trying to putmyself in your place. And I swear, Ivan, by the Holy Synod, that, if Iwere you, I should not do what you intend about that money. A few weeksmore, and your semiannual allowance is due. The five thousand roublesthat you've saved and tumbled into a bank, don't belong to PrinceGregoriev. He hasn't asked you for anything that he gave you while youwere--in your rightful place. And good Heavens! Haven't you surrenderedenough, without the quixotism of returning to him what he doesn't eitherwant or expect?--You might as well try to return him yourbaby-clothes!--So, if not for your own sake, then for me--for us--forthe sake of those that care for you, give yourself, at least, this onelittle chance!"--De Windt's voice, as he stopped, was shaking; and heturned his red face away that Ivan might not notice what was happeningto his eyes. Nevertheless Ivan had seen, and had been touched to thequick. His hand shot out, impetuously: and his voice was nearly as gruffas de Windt's as he began:

"Old fellow, I _am_ giving myself a chance. I've a lot of expensivetrash in these rooms that I sha'n't need now. I shall sell the greaterpart of that and make use of the proceeds. Most of the furniture herebelonged to my mother. My own stuff was bought with the little money sheleft me. --As for the other affair, --if I had anything else in the worldfor which--my father paid, I should certainly return it to him, as I amreturning this money. --You can't possibly understand my feeling; becauseyou don't know--the man. "

"Well, well! You see, Vladimir, that I should have some hundreds ofroubles, in spite of everything. And that will be enough to keep me forsix months, with economy. By that time I shall prove mymanhood. --Meantime, I intend that one week shall see me settled in mynew world. "

Thus ended their conversation--and with it de Windt's last effort toprevent his friend from, as he considered, deliberately ruining himself. Yet, in the end, he did help Ivan, much to that young man's secretchagrin. And the little affair was managed so adroitly, that it wasimpossible to refuse the presentation of two hundred and fifty roubleswhich had been obtained in a perfectly business-like way. The rent ofthe young men's apartment, which was by no means low, had always beendivided evenly between them, and payed, quarterly, to their landlord. Immediately upon the decision that Ivan was to leave this fashionablequarter of the city, a young ensign of the Second Grenadiers, one towhom both young men had taken a great fancy during the winter, offeredto take Ivan's share of the apartment off his hands. As he enteredbefore the 1st of June, he naturally insisted upon paying the twomonths' rent, which, however, Vladimir did not send Ivan untiltwenty-four hours after that quixotic youth had mailed his father acheck for every kopeck of money saved by him from his large allowance. The rent-money, added to that accruing from the sale of his personaleffects, which were extravagantly rich, was certainly acceptable to him, in his otherwise penniless situation; and, stiffly as he acknowledgedthe receipt of young Frol's check, de Windt perceived that he was deeplysensible of the kindliness and friendly feeling that had inspired theact. This was at least a crumb of comfort to the unhappy Vladimir; whohad been overwhelmed by bitter regret at the series of misfortunes whichnow ended forever his friendship with the one intimate companion of hislife. For de Windt, so speedily and so easily attracted to Gregoriev, was the most difficult officer in the regiment to know. Thispeculiarity, indeed, he carried with him through life: for from boyhoodto death, he was always unhappily swift to read the meaner faults ofmen; and pettiness, hypocrisy, selfishness and vanity, were stamped, tohis piercing eyes, upon the faces of ninety out of every hundred withwhom he came in contact. By the time he had reached twenty-five, hisinbred pessimism was so deeply rooted within him, that mankind, alwaysinteresting and to be studied as a theme, was to be fenced with, andgenerally avoided as a living entity. He rose in his time, did Vladimirde Windt, to be the Premier of Russia. But never again, throughout hismagnificent career, did he find in the eyes of any man the cleartruthfulness, the unselfishness, and the pathetic faith that he hadknown and so loved in his lost friend, Ivan Gregoriev. 

The end of Ivan's brief and brilliant career was like its beginning:meteoric. On the 20th of April, a whisper against him whirled throughthe _salons_. On the 30th it had become a murmur. From May 5th to May19th, Petersburg had stood, with open mouth, craning its neck to catch aglimpse of this monster of vice and crime. On May 21st, as Ivan walkedfrom the court-room, every eye had been averted from him, every skirtdrawn back from possible contact with that uniform which he had nolonger the right to wear. By the first of June, occasional furtive eyeswere seeking the chance to look through him once again; and their ownerswondered what signs of shame and misery they should have the joy ofreading upon his face. But, none of these eyes perceiving him, whispersbegan once more to creep slowly round: in a weak-voiced inquiry aboutthe criminal. But, among all of those that asked, there was not one whoreceived an answer; though it was not till the middle of the month thatsociety, on the eve of departing to defile the country-side, paused fora moment to lift its brows over the discovery that Ivan Gregoriev wouldnever be snubbed again. He had disappeared, absolutely, completely, outof the ken of his former world; though it took infinite repetition toconvince everybody that even Vladimir de Windt did not know his address. Certainly Ivan had accomplished a very unusual thing. Living still inthe midst of the world, he was lost to mankind; had vanished utterlyfrom sight or hearing. 

Yet poor Ivan's decisive action might have been more difficult had heknown that, though his romance was over, there was yet to be apostscript to society from Nice--an epilogue, as it were, to thefinished romance that had so inconsiderately turned itself into atragedy. Princess Shúlka-Mirski, the intimate friend of the CountessDravikine, had received a letter, written in the first heat of the newsof the court-martial's verdict. To be sure, she tried to hide her realmotive, by giving a brief description of Nathalie's wedding, and thenintroducing the delicate topic by uttering fervent thanks that herprincess-daughter should have been preserved from marriage with thatinfamous creature--Sophia's son!

Old Princess Shúlka-Mirski had lived long in the world; and readingbetween lines becomes to some women as much second-nature as calculatingthe cost of a neighbor's gown. Madame Dravikine, then, had been shakenby the news. Although it was plain that she should always resent anyaccusation of him: probably even references to his name, in herpresence, she had still not been able to refrain from inquiring afterhis physical health. And the reader guessed how she longed for full newsof him; his reception of his disgrace; his attitude towards the world;his present whereabouts; and his plans for the future. In her own mind, the old noblewoman wondered how much of Caroline's odd letter had beenprompted by the mental condition of Caroline's daughter. But she had thegrace not to repeat this mental query aloud, in her world. As forothers' thoughts--well, why should the ecstatic young bride, full of thedelight of her title and the Féodoreff sapphires, take the leastinterest in the fate of a miscreant with whom, in the period of hissuccess, she had indulged in an ephemeral flirtation?

Thus for nine days more they chattered. And then, as Tsarskoë-Selofilled, and the Nikitenko divorce proceedings came thundering down thebroad corridor of scandal, Ivan Gregoriev, his youth, success, trial, disgrace and disinheritance, melted away into the utter oblivion of thetwice-told, the old, and the stale. 

Ah! Could Ivan himself have gained something of indifference! Could hissenses, his jangled, shattered nerves, his bruised and bleeding pride, have acquired that callousness of stupidity, how well would it have beenwith him! But Ivan was Ivan still: high-strung, keenly apperceptive andreceptive; his spiritual, like his physical, nerves, alive to everyemotion, every pain or pleasure that rose up into his present. Only to acertain natural extent had he changed. The sudden violent revolutions ofhis wheel of life, had strengthened his character, though they hadtemporarily shocked both mind and body. His mental state, during theweeks immediately succeeding his change of residence, was one of blankdepression. The hand of inheritance lay heavy on him now. Thehypersensitiveness of Sophia Blashkov, during the months before hisbirth, reproduced itself, with startling similarity, in the youth whosesensibilities had been so sharpened by long pampering in the hot-houseatmosphere of luxurious idleness; and an attitude of constant flatteryand suavity from the men and women in whose eyes he was always haloed bya crown of thousand-rouble pieces. To-day, how different his estate! Hesaw his world now with the eyes of the outsider. And what a thing itwas!--This stolid dummy, from which both tinsel robe and leering maskhad now been stripped for him, exposing the brutal, heartless machinethat had taken such delight in crushing a fallen man!

Metaphors such as these are stale enough: yet Ivan, in his soreness, concocted many an unlovely allegory, during those first days of hislonely exile. He had been at this useless occupation for some time on acertain afternoon in June, when all his soul seemed crying to him for abreath of country air. He was sitting in his single rocking-chair, bythe open dormer of his attic-room, in one of the narrow dwelling streetson Vassily Island--the poorest quarter of Petersburg. Day after day hadhe sat thus, coming, by slow, rather timorous degrees, face to face withhimself and his new surroundings. Just now his eyes were closed; but thenoise of the street, in which most of the inhabitants passed the greaterpart of their time at this season, and the fetid smells of the bakingcity, came up to him from below, reminding him constantly of hisneighborhood. --Ay, he had got his wish!--The half-gods had gone, indeed. But the gods--how should they honor such a spot as this by their divinepresence? Nay; he was alone in a strange land. Alone, yet known to many, all too well! Deserted by his own class, how should the poverty-strickencreatures who must henceforth be his neighbors welcome among them onerepudiated by his father and his nearest relatives?--Ah! In this lastthought lay, indeed, the keynote to poor Ivan's mental state. Allthrough the recent, dreadful weeks, he had held in his heart a hope, however faint, that there would reach him some message, some word, somehint, even, that she--Nathalie, did not utterly condemn him: had stillfor him a thought of sympathy and understanding of his reckless deed. But day after day had come and gone. The trial had ended. He had lefthis old haunts: had severed himself completely from all formerassociations; and without knowing whether the woman he loved--she forwhom he had virtually ruined himself, --was a happy wife, a wretchedbride, or--dead. Nathalie, like all the rest, had passed out of hislife. And night by night he laid him down, clasping in his arms thegaunt figure of despair, before whose dread embrace courage and manhoodalike fell back, wavered, and seemed to fade from him forever. 

 * * * * *

The chronicle of a human life can never do justice to nature; for thereason that, for every man and woman, there come long periods of quietlabor or inaction when for months, perhaps years, scarce one untowardincident comes to break the slow routine of existence. The doings of oneday repeat those of the day before, anticipate those of the morrow. Whatshall the chronicler do? Send his reader yawning to bed over theunfinishable tale? Or pass over, in a word, some period in which hissubject is growing and changing, day by day, for better or for worse, till he emerges from that long, monotonous stretch, a creaturestartlingly different from that of the last chapter?--It is to such an_impasse_ as this that we have arrived with our penniless Ivan. For fouryears we find scarce a single mile-stone of event along his highway. Andyet the development of Ivan's secret self was swift; unusual;tremendous. During this period he grappled frequently with mighty, rising passions; crushed rebellions; bowed to revolutions carried onwithin the kingdom of his soul. Yet he was no weakling, to keep a diaryof moods. And our only testimony of him, is from--let us say--hislandlady, the excellent Elizabeth Stepniak:

A tall fellow, growing a little stooped: silent, unobliging, unsociable;yet a good lodger in his way, in that he paid his rent, and neverdisturbed families below him with the carousals and other performancescommon to young bachelors. When he had first come, he had, indeed, spentan entire summer in shocking idleness; and she, Frau Gemälin, hadworried, from time to time, about her money; and again sometimes, whenhe had paid it without a word, felt inclined, by boldly raising it, todiscover what were really his means. However, in the autumn she did findout his work. He was a kind of _musiker_; and not only played one or twosimple instruments in the orchestra of a small, third-class theatre nearby, but also copied orchestra parts from original scores, correctedmusic proofs, and orchestrated many an ambitious attempt at compositionsent him by over-enthusiastic students of the Conservatoire. Moreover, towards the end of his first winter, the recluse began to have anoccasional caller; and at such times was wont to make disagreeabledemands that he get the amount of wood and peat for his fire that hepaid for: not those customary odd scraps of fuel which she usually foundhim willing enough to accept. It was not as if his visitors had beenworth anything!--They were simply musical fellows like himself; anddressed as such--without even so much as a touch of gold on cuff orlapel!

The second summer proved a trying one to the good landlady. If herlodger had not been with her so long, she vowed she could not have bornewith his actions--bringing home a new musical instrument every week;from most of which he drew forth noises that either set one's teeth onedge, or made her so mournful that she would be forced to ease herfeelings by a visit to the cemetery; where her faithful Makár laysleeping his last sleep. And yet, for all his preposterouscaterwaulings, on not one of these various instruments did Ivan reallylearn to play! Long before he attained any proficiency upon one, hewould take that back to wherever it came from, and bring home another;till at last she felt it a duty to remonstrate with the fellow upon thefatuity of not getting something one wanted at first and then stickingto it. Not that she wasn't well aware how little real liveliness was tobe got out of any of his instruments! She could understand his disgustwith them. But let him get something really musical, and he would see. She was musical herself, and liked a tune as well as anybody. Now, "InBerlin Sagt Er, " on a concertina, say;--ah! There was somethingpossible, to be sure!

But all her advice to the silly fellow was soon seen to be completelywasted. The idiot thanked her, solemnly, and with an air; butimmediately spoiled it all by explaining that he did not want to learnto play any instrument; but was finding out the kind of sounds made byeach one. --As if any but a person born silly could care to learnthat!--And she did not think Mr. Gregoriev exactly a fool--or, at least, weak-brained. 

Well, he had gone on, and lived with her till four years rolled round, and it was May again--the May of 1866; when Ivan, who looked thirty andmore, was not yet at his twenty-sixth birthday. 

So much for Madame Stepniak, and her account of her lodger's simpleexistence: one which furnishes us no little insight into the process andprogress of that inner impetus towards a career so far from hisinherited position: a yearning, from which he had suffered acutely up tothe time of his sudden freedom. It is, then, somewhat curious that, throughout his former life, through his boyhood, his years in the Corps, and the brief period of his society life, Ivan should have been on termsof genuine intimacy with himself; whereas, after the dissolution of allartificiality in his surroundings, when at last he stood before himself, face to face with his naked soul, he became suddenly disturbed, uncertain, afraid of that self-confidence on which he had hitherto soprided himself. For many months he had turned from the self-analysiswhich would finally have developed into morbidness. And his act had metits reward. Slowly, at length, there emerged, out of its veiling mists, that long-neglected animus, which, bearing no malice for neglect, cameto Ivan, and took him by the hand, saying:

"We meet again. Henceforth let us traverse together the appointed road. "

In that hour it seemed as if a great wave of understanding and ofwelcome overswept Ivan; and when it had passed, he knew that the soul ofhim had undergone a change: the great change for which he had not daredto hope. The evil consequences of his long months of pamperingdisappeared. Regret for what had been grew faint. He was glad of thepresent: he held out glad arms to the future--that future of labor, possibly thankless, which he was to dread no more. In fact, he wasbecome a man, honest and clean and strong; and, for a time, he dwelt inpeace with his best self, and believed his struggle finally ended. 

The belief was premature. Evil habit dies not in a day. A few weeks, andlo! it was upon him again: his coward self, with all its black legion ofhabit, laziness, love of ease, gluttony, and petty vice. Thenceforth hisspirit was become a battle-field, whereon, long and long, the twoleaders, angel and devil, manipulated their forces, and held conflictupon conflict, not one of which appeared decisive. Yet, gradually, itseemed to him who waited, the standard of intellect rose high andshining over the white, luminous lines; while that of the animal grewfrayed and faded, beginning to betray the rottenness of its materialbeneath the gaudy ornaments. Victory was finally acknowledged when, upona November day of his year of disgrace, --1862, Ivan, braving scorn, rejection, even deliberate non-recognition, entered the doors of theConservatoire over the dead body of his false pride, and asked to seethe director, Monsieur Zaremba. 

He emerged from that building, a little later, with a radiant face, anda heart throbbing with gratitude. Not only Zaremba, but both Rubinsteinshad come from their classes to greet him; showing in their mannerrespect, interest, nay, almost, he believed, pleasure! And, before hehad made his simple request, more than he had dreamed of asking had beensuggested--proffered to him: so generously, moreover, that he could notpossibly take it as patronage. He had now, under his arm, a roll ofmanuscript music to be copied into parts--for which work the pay wasgood. Such tasks, he was assured, could be promised regularly. Butthere were already other plans in his brain--plans suggested by NicholasRubinstein and developed by the others. Ivan must re-enter the harmonyclasses; and there would be no charge, during the winter, since he couldsurely, by a little exertion, win one of the scholarships given afterthe annual competitions in June. With one of these--or the money heshould earn in later years, all obligations might be cancelled--if hechose. For these musicians recognized their kind: and, since thatlong-past evening of the _barcarolle_, had marked Ivan for a future, according to their lights. As for the events of the past May--what wasthe army, what was a pretty woman, to them? To their minds, the wholeepisode had been singularly fortunate; since it delivered Ivan from auseless and foolish life; and gave them an opportunity to push theyouth, willy-nilly, into revealing the final quality of his undoubtedtalent. --And they were to discover it, indeed. After which, according totheir inconsistent consistency, Ivan having attained some slightreputation, they might turn upon him, one and all, and score him, bitterly, in their jealousy. --Which fact, with many another equally sureand equally unpleasant, remained unsuspected by the happy man whoascended his four flights of stairs that snowy night to light asacrificial fire to the arbiter of his soul, the first of the promisedgods, who had stolen in upon him unawares, and now cast off his wholedisguise: the god of labor loved. 

At last Ivan's days began to be full: full of a dry work that containedmany sources of keen interest to him. Certainly the greater part of itwas the merest drudgery. Each afternoon he bent over a desk, laboriouslycopying manuscript music; meditating upon his morning of study at theConservatoire; or seeking to hear the music the notes and signs of whichhe had been writing down. And this last exercise, idle though he thoughtit, in time bore excellent results. In the evening he still played inthe orchestra of the Panaievsky Theatre--though he had now risen from"all-round man" to the sole charge of the kettle-drums. Even theperformances on the shallow stage above him held for him keen interest;and, without other tuition, he gained here a knowledge of dramaticconstruction that served him well later, during the creation of his fewoperas. For, in Ivan, great talent found itself mated to love of earnestwork:--a union to which the world has, through all time, owed itsgreatest masters of art and science. 

During eighteen months--until the autumn of 1864, Ivan's working-dayaveraged fourteen hours. He studied constantly under Anton Rubinstein;and had the privilege, during that time, of many a private lesson underthe master who at that time looked upon him as his special discovery. During the summer, he took a few pupils from the poorer ranks of theConservatoire: students, who, by means of coaching during the summer, and double work in the winter months, managed to shorten their years ofstudy, that wage-earning might begin as soon as possible. 

At the beginning of the new winter season, Ivan passed through anexperience deeply dreaded, and found himself the recipient of ahappiness greater than he had dreamed possible. At the earnestsolicitation of his master, he once more made his appearance in the_salon_ of the Grand-Duchess Helena: this time as a paid accompanist. The moment in which he crossed the once familiar threshold, seemed tohim the most difficult of his lonely years. And then, in anotherinstant, he was in a new country! Her Imperial Highness greeted him witha cordiality such as she had never before shown; and the assembledcompany only waited for the royal greeting to crowd about him, handsout-stretched, with a welcome that brought a lump to his throat. If hisplaying was very bad that night: if his cold, damp fingers couldscarcely move across the keys, no one noticed it save, perhaps, hishostess, who surely, in her beautiful wisdom, understood it well. 

Years of hard study and constant mechanical training had kept Ivan safefor a long time from immature and damaging attempts at creative work. But with the ending of this winter of 1864-65, the spring began to bringhim a renewal of dreams and aspirations too vivid and too strong to bewritten off by any fury of exercise, work, or self-deprecation. Melodiesof long ago began to ring again in his ears. Old bits of harmonization, half forgotten, returned upon him with new meaning in their crudesuccessions. Vague ideas grew clear. And there was a turmoil within himwhich he recognized, instinctively, as the creator's imperative summons. Still he held off, remembering the warnings of attempting work withouttools--of production before the acquirement of sufficient technique. Nouse! The more he fought, the more did his brain seethe--fired by theevents of his dead life, its incidents, its dramatic climaxes, its finaltragedy, all of them turned into a new form, a new meaning: resolvingthemselves persistently into his one means of expression. Thus it wasthat, before he understood the significance of the change in him, herealized at last the great fact that his first great work had risen tocompletion, as it were, in a night, and lay now awaiting only themechanical transcription to paper. It was ambitious, this firstwork--the "Symphony of Youth. " Its first movement was _allegro agitato_, _adagio_, and _allegretto scherzando_, picturing each vivid phase ofearly boyhood; next came the requisite _andante_, --a dreaming melody, expressing all the yearning, the vague melancholy of pre-adolescence;then the third: a rippling _scherzo_ of youthful pleasures, gayety, young loves and joyous dances; finally a tempestuous _finale_:_allegretto sforzando é appassionato_--the rising of the burdens ofmanhood, of new ambitions; the descending of the sadness of man'sresponsibility, the reluctant passing of the careless, heart-free joysof youth. 

The idea and its possibilities took possession of Ivan so much to theexclusion of all else that by mid-May he capitulated to it, announcedhis intention of taking a holiday for the summer, and secreted himselfin his old room, confiding in no one, instinctively afraid ofdiscouragement from his master and benefactor. But it was a recklessbusiness, this resignation of all means of livelihood. He had verylittle money saved; and, do what he would, he could not hope, if he wasto keep out of debt, to buy much nourishing food. Through stifling daysand pitiless, white nights, he labored, alone, incessantly; sparinghimself in no way; foolishly refraining from exercise and out-door air, because both of them sharpened his constantly unsatisfied appetite. Whatmore natural, then, than that September should bring with it fever, delirium, bad nursing, heavy bills; and October a convalescence rendereddoubly slow because of persistent malnutrition. From this he passed, atthe end of this month, into a haggard semblance of health, accompaniedby that black depression which cries aloud for rest and complete changeof scene. 

Neither of these, however, could Ivan get. Doggedly he returned to hisduties, and began, bit by bit, to pay off his debts: those debts which, five years ago, would have appeared so absurd; and which were now thenightmare of his existence! But, though he managed to accomplish theusual amount of work, and had even occasional snatches of a brilliancewhich astonished himself, it was not difficult to read in his face thesigns of approaching breakdown. He had lived too long upon his nerves. The Rubinsteins, consulting together, shook their heads over him, wondered how his pride was to be circumvented, and finally hit on ascheme which was, for them, more than usually tactful. Anton created anew medal and scholarship, to be presented thereafter annually for thebest musical setting of a classic poem which was to be the same for all. It was an exercise in which Ivan delighted; and there was little doubtas to the destination of the prize of the first year. Fate treated himkindly, at last; for he managed to keep up till after the contest. Hissetting of Schiller's "Ode to Joy" was incomparably the best of thesixty efforts. So, with five hundred roubles, he paid the remainder ofhis debts, and found himself, one week later, in Vevey, a nervous wreck, truly; but free at last from mental worry, and drawing in hope and lifewith every breath. 

It was September before Petersburg saw him again--penniless, but full ofsuch vigor and energy as were equal to a fair-sized capital. And he hadnot been in the city more than a fortnight, before he discovered thatone more stage upon his rough road was over; and that the bend beyondthe half-way house hid tremendous possibilities. 

It was the afternoon of the 16th of the month. Ivan was at his table, bending over some half-finished parts for an orchestra overture, whenthe door of his old attic opened, unceremoniously, and NicholasRubinstein strode in. 

CHAPTER XI

THE MOSCOW CONSERVATOIRE

Ivan rose from his place, smiling a welcome. In spite of himself he hadalways liked Anton less than the unfamed brother whom Petersburgsupposed just now to be in Vienna, attending Anton in his new series ofelectrifying recitals. But the rough, strong, kindly face, short, muscular figure and genial smile of Ivan's visitor were unmistakable. He, then, after shaking hands with the younger man, put down the hugewater-proof portfolio that he bore under his arm, shuffled out of thealpaca overcoat that he persistently wore, summer after summer, threwhis hat upon the bed, and, with a face more than usually serious, drew achair to the other side of the work-table, and sat down. 

"I'm interrupting your work, " he remarked, as Ivan shoved his copy toone side and seated himself also. "Yes, I'm interrupting; but you canspare the time, I believe, considering my errand. "

"I've plenty of time. --But--there's no trouble in Vienna, --no accident, I hope?" Ivan's tone took on a shade of anxiety. 

Nicholas, who was engaged in lighting a very black cigar, did not answertill the blue smoke was rolling up satisfactorily. Then he replied: "No, I left there a week ago. Anton is with Bruckner and one or two others, and didn't need me. But I--well, there's a most annoying business aboutthis Moscow affair!"

"What? The new Conservatoire?"

"Yes. You know Serov signed a contract to take the intermediate classes:theory and orchestration, you understand. "

Ivan nodded. "In June, before I left, he was full of it. "

"Um--yes. And he signed the contract, remember!--But that was beforethey began to fill his pockets and his head with the success of'Reseda'--that new opera of his--very mixed style, and too light. --Nodepth at all. --No classic restraint. Bald melody--thin little_tum-ti-tums_, _pizzicato_, for accompaniment! But he found a new theme, the other day, and has gone mad about it. Now there's nothing to be donewith him. Wrote me ten days ago to say that he absolutely must stay herethis winter to keep his proper musical 'atmosphere. '--Oh thesemusicians! Not an ounce of business integrity in the lot of 'em!--Ofcourse, we could hold him to the contract. But do we want a teacher thathasn't a thought for his classes?--Anton says, make him go to Moscow! Isay, let him stay here. But I'm worried to death over it. I'd do hiswork myself, only I'm up to my ears in classes and lectures as itis. --And the thing opens in November!--Who is to take the main body ofthe students, for Heaven's sake?"

"Laroche!" shouted Ivan. 

"Irresponsible; and--too much money. "

"Um--a--oh--this new man we hear of--Monsieur Kashkine, of Moscow. "

"He's literary, rather than musical. No real time for classes. "

"Wieniawski, then?"

"By nature a virtuoso. It would be rather a pity to waste his techniqueand pin him down to a teacher's life. With a composer, the thing'sdifferent. One can always find time for composition, even whileteaching. But practice knocks any possibility of other work on the headat once. "

There was a pause. Ivan, at the end of his suggestions, began to feelpuzzled at Rubinstein's coming to him with such questions at all. Presently, however, he decided that this was not the real object of thevisit; and asked, with a change of tone: "Well, have you some new workfor me?--Some copying?"

"I've got some new work for you, certainly. But not copying. "

"What then?"

"Well--this. I want you to leave here for Moscow, with me, in five days;and prepare to take Serov's place in the new Conservatoire. "

"_What!_" The exclamation was low, and absolutely incredulous. 

"You heard me. Aren't you perfectly well fitted to teach theory andharmony laws, and the principles of composition, to a lot ofignoramuses, at one hundred roubles a month?"

Before Nicholas had finished, Ivan jumped to his feet and began to paceup and down the attic-room. In his cheeks there appeared two vivid spotsof red; and his eyes shone, peculiarly. Rubinstein sat puffing at thepipe for which he had just exchanged his cigar; while he stared aboutthe bare room, and waited, patiently, for his sudden proposition to sinkhome. He was unprepared, however, for what came. Ivan presently stoppedin front of him, saying, hurriedly:

"You know I was born in Moscow?"

"I have heard it. "

"My father lives there. "

"That will be fortunate for you. "

"Oh! but--he--I'm disinherited, you know! And--where should I live, there, on my hundred roubles a month?"

"Well, it is not a large sum; but it can be done. Besides, as soon as weprove the thing a success, we'll increase the salaries. Also, you shallhave time to work on your own little ideas. --Ah! I have it!--I've anapartment, close to the Conservatoire. It's furnished, andShrâdik--violin, you know--is living there already. He has one room, Ianother. Will you take the third? We'll share the parlor. "

"Oh--oh Nicholas Ivanovitch, stop! You misunderstand!--The pay is doublewhat I live on now. --I mean, only, that--for me--there are memories inMoscow: bitter ones. --I'm used to ostracism here; but in Moscow--wheremy mother's family has always been--Oh! I don't see my way to it!"

"Then I'll see it for you. Look here: this offer is going to help you upthe ladder. It will prepare the way for your new place in theworld:--the one you want to gain for yourself, which is far better thananything inherited. You've more promise in you than any of these otherlumbering creatures--even Serov himself. And now--you refuse your greatchance because you'll be living in a city where your father is!--Bah, Ivan! I never thought you a school-girl before!--Must it be Laroche, then?"

"By Heavens--no!" The words leaped from him involuntarily; but Ivan letthem stay. 

Two minutes afterwards the pipe was once more going, placidly; and bythe time the room was hazy with smoke, Nicholas had explained thedetails of his plan, and had departed, leaving Ivan alone, dizzy withthe prospects of his new life. Within a fortnight, he could turn hisback on Petersburg, the hated city. --Small time now for the long-delayedplacing of his symphony: for the completion of the concert overture andthe tone-poem already forming in his active brain! Better to wait, andtake his chances in the musical world of Moscow. --His work! Hisprofession!--Did this unexpected offer leave him free enough to developthe future of his dreams? Ah well! No use pondering that. The affairwas settled; and circumstance must take care of the rest. Destiny isprobably foreordained. What reason, then, in struggling over anddoubting one's actions? Meantime, a new theme was taking possession ofhis mind. Moscow, and the idea of seeing it again, had brought oldmemories down on him; and he wondered if he might not gratify his suddenlonging, and let his father know at least that he was alive, and well?The second wish was graver; touching his hidden self more nearly. Couldhe, should he--would it be humbling his pride too much, if he went tosee his aunt--who had just returned to town for the winter?--Would shelet him come to say good-bye to her, give him some faint echo of theby-gone friendliness?--Time certainly had drawn the poison from Ivan'swound, since he could debate this question, which, after all, was onlythe cloak to another: that of the possibility of learning how his cousinfared. For of her, the young Princess, he had learned practicallynothing since the time of her hasty marriage in a distant land. That shespent her life in and around Petersburg, he was aware. But he had neveronce seen her in the city; and had never been sure of her immediatewhereabouts. That her place in his heart had never been usurped, nor herimage grown dim with the passing years, was all he realized to-day. 

Ivan's inheritance from his mother was a temperament sensitive to thepoint of morbidness. This unhappy characteristic had been fostered onlyduring his early years. But he had not attempted to change it till theperiod of his disgrace plainly offered a choice between a resolutestifling of his pain or downright madness. Being the son of his father, he made the practical selection. And he saw now that the years of hisindependent poverty had done much towards the development ofcommon-sense, and the extinction of that hypersensibility which had somarred his otherwise fine nature. Moreover, just the regular, dailyroutine of work, and the friendly rivalry with his fellow-students, hadimbued him with the manly courage with which he faced the world. Yet notone of us can permanently alter his temperament; and, to the end of hislife, Ivan was destined to suffer periodic torments from shyness, natural reticence, and a never-dying sense of shame at the memory ofthat unjust disgrace which by this time many interpreted rightly, andmany others had completely forgotten. 

For some years, in fact since his boyhood, Ivan's mental attitudetowards his father had been as to a black shadow which had lain acrossthe whole of his mother's existence and the greater part of his own. When his change of feeling began, or how, he did not know. Possibly itwas as far back as the trial and conviction, through his father'sindictment and evidence, of Brodsky, his own bitterest enemy. Certainlyits development had certainly been unconscious. And to-day Ivan washimself surprised at his secret feeling of tenderness towards PrinceMichael, as for one aged and broken with grief. After the absolutesilence of four years, he found it almost a pleasure to write the lonelyman, telling him of his little success, his sudden change of residence, something of his ambitions for the future; but not a word of his longstruggle with poverty, and the lonely austerity of his life. In theletter he enclosed an address--that of Rubinstein's Moscow apartment;where, even should it not be his own abode, communications at leastwould always reach him. And if his excellency would but send some word, however brief, Ivan would gladly come to see him--not as a son, necessarily, but as one to whom Prince Gregoriev's welfare could not butbe a matter of supreme interest and concern. 

The writer of this missive spent time and pains upon its composition;and succeeded in expressing himself with clearness and considerabledelicacy, though making very evident the fact that he neither desirednor would accept the slightest pecuniary assistance from one who had sofuriously disowned and deserted him in his hour of sore need. 

It may have been this final implication, or, more probably, the oneother unfortunate suggestion in the letter, relating to the importanceto the writer of Michael's welfare--(interpreted _health_)--which thefather angrily deduced as a desire for his death and the hope of speedyinheritance, which once more undid Ivan with the desolate, stubborn, remorsefully remorseless old man, to whom, in his secret soul, the boywas still the apple of his eye, the greatest and final disappointment ofhis harsh life. Certainly Ivan waited in vain for the requested message. But before this disappointment came, he had passed through anotheranxiously waited experience. For, on the same day that he posted theletter to Moscow, he took his courage into his hands and went, for thefirst time since the February of nearly five years ago, to the house inthe Serghievskaia, where a brisk young footman informed him suavely thatMadame la Comtesse received. 

It was forty minutes later when Ivan emerged from the house, his brainwhirling in as great a tumult of emotions as were the hearts of twowomen whom he left behind him. Yet the idea of emotion on his aunt'spart would never have occurred to him; and of the other, he knewnothing. Countess Caroline was past mistress in the worldling'sart of subtle, refined, undiscoverable patronage, snobbery, indifference--insult if you will. With apparently exactly the same quietvoice and manner, she could warm the soul of a Royal Duchess with thedelightfulest flattery; while, in the intervals between phrases, shewould shrivel an undesirable caller into a state of quivering apologyfor the presumption of invading the house of so lofty a personage asMadame Dravikine. 

Thus, when her nephew presented himself before her, Countess Caroline'sheart gave a great throb of welcome and of pity; but her impassive facegrew only a little colder, and, though in the first seconds of lookinginto the eyes of Sophia's son, hearing the familiar, inherited tricks ofher sister's speech, she was betrayed into the suggestion of a genuinefrankness, she soon bethought herself of an imminent danger which bothwere in; and she instantly set herself to drive him from the house atthe earliest moment. For the Countess had been momentarily expecting herdaughter, who was to come to tea this afternoon; and for many reasonsshe dared not permit those two to meet again. Therefore poor Ivan foundhimself treated to a succession of monosyllables so chilling that thererose up in him, first, a great wave of bitter disappointment and grief;and then a hot anger that held him immovable in his seat, in the face ofa now open attack of rudeness such as few women and no man had everbefore endured from this experienced _mondaine_. At last, seeing that, while he gained nothing, he was probably losing much by his persistence, he rose, restrained, by an effort, any expression of the fury that hisaunt read plainly in his eyes, and left her. Nor did he ever know thatduring the last fifteen minutes of his stay Nathalie, --Nathalie, herdear face lined with grief and care, her beautiful eyes faded and dullfrom long bodily pain and the mental anguish that has passed the boundsof tears, --Nathalie, big with child for the third successive autumn ofher wretched married life--had sat not twelve feet from him, overhead, in her mother's boudoir. For there she had retreated, on learning thatmadame was entertaining a young man who was not an _habitué_ of thehouse, and whose name had not been given for announcement. 

Still Ivan's visit had not been wholly fruitless. He had elicited whathe had chiefly wished to learn. Unconsciously, because the subject wasthe present burden of her nights and days, Caroline had betrayed thefact of her daughter's unhappiness. Yet she would have maintained, andtruly, that she had not permitted three sentences to pass her lips onthe subject of the Princess Féodoreff. But the acuteness of the_mondaine_ pales before that of the lover. Caroline knew nothing of whatIvan took away with him; nor dreamed that, from this hour, Nathalie'sload became the secret burden of another. But perhaps in that briefhour, when her bitter tongue had so belied the crushed emotion of herheart, Madame Dravikine regretted, not for the first time, her cruelrejection of the young man who, it was plain to see, had retained hisfidelity to her unhappy child through all his years of separation fromher and ignorance concerning her married life. 

 * * * * *

Despite the plans of Nicholas Rubinstein, his departure for Moscow, and, by consequence, that of the under-teacher, was delayed for some weeks;and it was only on the evening of October 2d that Ivan, with all hisearthly belongings in the two valises beside him, and his wholefortune--forty roubles--in his pocket, stood by his companion in frontof the Petersburg station in Moscow, waiting for a droschky and lookingonce more upon the lights and many-colored domes of his native city. 

Three hours later, in a comfortable little room on the third floor of adingy house of the Brionsovskaia, three men, who had been lingering overa hearty supper, rose to their feet, glasses in hand, to repeat thetoast just suggested by the youngest of the trio:

"To the Conservatoire of Moscow--and her director: the friend andbenefactor of all Russian musicians, --Nicholas Rubinstein!"

The first six words rang out from three voices; but before the rest theoldest man put down his glass, laughing as he said:

"You prevent my drinking, Ivan Mikhailovitch. No. Let the rest of thetoast be: 'to the friendship of the three who inhabit this apartment:thou Boris, and thou Ivan, --star of the future, and finally my old, plain self!'"

Boris Shrâdik, the young violinist who formed the third inmate of theRubinstein apartment, quickly seized the speaker by the right hand, while Ivan grasped his left; and then the younger men, setting downtheir glasses, clasped hands across the small table. 

There was an instant's silence. Then the glasses were drained, and Ivan, to whom the evening had brought many a throb of sentiment, walked awayto the window for a moment, while even Rubinstein loudly cleared histhroat. --They are an emotional people, these musicians; and, despite thepettiness which success seems to raise in them, they are, in privatelife, genial and generous, and intensely loyal to their kind. 

It was not wonderful that the youngest professor of the Conservatoirespeedily made himself at home in his new abode. Moscow might hold manysad memories for him; but it was the place which must always be hishome, after all. For where the first years of childhood are spent, there, however humble the place, are rooted deep some of the soul'sloveliest plants: there rest associations of love and of joy far morepowerful, more unforgettable, than any that can be made in after life:and these make a consecration recognized by the most careless, the mostunsentimental of us all. Ivan, indeed, rejoiced daily that he had not tobegin life again in a strange city. But he soon perceived that he hadformed an astonishingly mistaken notion of what that life was to be. Hehad believed it would bear a strong resemblance to the existence he hadbeen leading for the past years: so many afternoon hours amongstudents--this time as teacher, instead of pupil; so many for rest, meals, exercise; the rest of the time spent in quiet solitude, at hisown beloved work. 

Two thirds of this programme he did, indeed, carry out; though notwithout constant difficulties in escaping those friendly spirits whowould have kept him for hours at a time over a meal, out of sheerconviviality. And it was three weeks or more before the absent-mindeddreamer became convinced of the hopelessness of attempting his own workin that particular atmosphere. For Ivan was of a type, fortunately rare, which demands a large amount of daily solitude. Loneliness he mightdread--and bear. But isolation during his working hours he must have, atwhatever price. And to expect isolation in Nicholas Rubinstein'sapartment, was, truly, to cry for the moon. Regularly, all day, thelittle living-room overflowed with visitors; nor did any of thesehesitate to comply with any requested musical exhibition, despite thefact that, during eight hours of the working day, the apartmentresounded with violin exercises emitted from the bedroom of youngShrâdik. Even this was not all; for the house was in the heart of themusicians' quarter. And all day, from apartments below, from roomsabove, came an endless banging, shrieking and caterwauling fromembryonic _tenori_ and _virtuosi_, such as, within a month, would havecured all but the most persistent music-lovers of any further desire forthe expression of that abstract art. 

Ivan _was_ of the most persistent. Therefore, towards the middle ofNovember, his nerves raw and quivering under baffled attempts to composeagainst the Devil's Chorus rising to heaven from every side, he sought, and finally found, salvation from incipient madness, in the refugeafforded by a neighboring _traktir_, much frequented, o' nights, byuniversity students, but as deserted through the morning hours as hadbeen Ivan's yearned-for attic. 

Hither, to a small parlor, he removed, by permission, his piano and hiswriting-table. And tolerated, nay, encouraged, by a musical and friendlylandlord, Ivan began to forget his recent care-infested, nervous days inthe labor of his love. Provided, on his arrival, with a glass of_vodka_, and ending by eating there his noon-day meal, the youngcomposer, assured by his hosts that any obligations he might be underwere, by these purchases, quite repaid, would seat himself at instrumentor desk, and, in that curious compound of mathematical accuracy and freeflights of imagination that goes to make up music, forget himself andhis surroundings completely. Nor was he ever at a loss for material. Atthis period, indeed, his brain was beset with far more ideas than couldever properly be developed. For many weeks, indeed, he confined himselfto but two things: the overture, as a conscientious necessity; and atone-poem, in which, as an unconventional form, he might embody the bestof his vagrant fancies, and the rich, unlawful harmonizations whereinalready, fresh though he was from classical remonstrance, he delighted. But when he found that the "day-dream" could not be made to contain halfhis delighted ideas, he began to jot them down separately, and throwthem into the growing sheaf of manuscript which, by-and-by, was to beworked into the shape of (oh whisper it reverently!) his first opera, "The Boyar. "

At the hour in which the young composer (sometime between half-pasttwelve and one o'clock) habitually turned his steps away from the kindly"Cucumber, " his mood, likewise, automatically changed. From thefanciful creator he became the pedagogue, the serious doctor of music, whose mind was occupied chiefly by elementary exercises that should tendto draw the incipient conceits of youth away from the alluring emptyfifth (a form in which his other self delighted), and the equallyinsidious octave parallel. At times he advanced to laws of even greatermoment, and corresponding intricacy. For he took a genuine interest inhis pupils; and, in that first year of his teaching, carried his classto surprising lengths, nor let them betray any evidences ofunthoroughness when they went trembling up to the examinations providedby the great Anton himself, in the mid-year term. 

Ivan's estimate of his pedagogic labors was very humble. But NicholasRubinstein, who himself taught for nine hours daily, soon came toappreciate the conscientious work of his subordinate, clearlyperceptible in the excellently trained classes who came up to him fortheir monthly competition. And this satisfaction was soon substantiallyexpressed. Upon the formal opening of the new building of theConservatoire in December, Ivan found his salary increased bytwenty-five roubles monthly. Nor did he suspect what Nicholas wentthrough to obtain this favor; though he was not slow to notice thechange of manner which Anton of the jealous soul had already begun tobetray towards him. 

The month succeeding the opening of the great, white building, wasreplete with change. First of all, young Shrâdik departed for aconcert-tour, through Austria and Germany; and, though he and Gregorievparted most cordially, it was with a feeling of new freedom that Ivanlooked about him, when the persistent practiser of trills and runs wasgone to show the great world the results of meritorious study. Two weekslater, came the welcome if astonishing news that Ivan, whose classes hadgrown rapidly, was to have an assistant, in the person of youngLaroche:--his nearest friend in the Petersburg student days. And whenthis young fellow replaced the violinist in the Rubinstein household, Ivan felt the cup of his contentment full. 

In many ways, indeed, this period was one of the happiest of Gregoriev'scareer. It was at this time that he formed those several friendshipswhich stood him, in his after years, in such rich stead. Of the manyprofessional men who frequented Nicholas' society, one of the foremostwas Monsieur Kashkine:--he who afterwards did so much to make Ivan knownto his world. From the first these two young men took to each other withthe utmost congeniality. Next to the writer, Ivan's fancy locked itselfwith that of bullet-headed, homely, great-hearted Balakirev: a man whohas been the inspiration of a dozen greater than he; who, for thirtyyears a pillar of Russian music, has let his greatest ideas go to feedthe brains of those who have learned to stand towards him, as the publictowards themselves. Finally, there was young Ostrovsky, later one of thegreat playwrights and librettists of the country; who, even at thistime, had come into popularity in Moscow through some of his lightercomedies, and a farce or two, produced at the Little Theatre. --Of thesethree men, not one who did not early appreciate the quality of Ivan'sfew productions; and agree enthusiastically--behind Ivan's back--with aprophecy made by Nicholas Rubinstein, which, had its subject heard it, would have caused him to retire, stuttering with indignation. Never, intruth, was young workman more modest than the Gregoriev of that day. Buthe had the grace to appreciate his friendships, and to cling to them asif he understood, even then, from what blackest depths of depression andmelancholy they were, by-and-by, to rescue him!

Looking back upon the early days of his musical life, it was, as amatter of fact, to the occasion of the formal opening of theConservatoire that Ivan pointed, as marking the real beginning of hisprolific career. Yet, for years after that night, he could not recall itwithout a twinge of bitterness. For, at the time, he was in the throesof the first of his long series of disappointments:--the cuttingrejection of his symphony by the temporary director of the Petersburgorchestra. The manuscript had been returned to him with a communicationwhich had caused stout Nicholas a penance for profanity; though even hefailed to surmise the part that two men had played in this insult to apiece of work which, if crude in spots, was still far too magnificentlybroad, too thoroughly original, to deserve half the criticism incited byIvan's former masters, Zaremba and Anton Rubinstein; to whom themanuscript had been sent. 

When these men came down to Moscow for the celebration of the opening oftheir Conservatoire, neither one of them, probably, escaped some slighttwinge of conscience at the frank, deferential greeting given them bytheir whilom pupil, whose slight pallor and weariness of expressionalone betrayed his sickening disappointment. But the two were relieved, also, that no hint of their complicity in unjustice had leaked out; andthey played cheerful parts at the exercises and banquet which were tomark the completion of their earnest labors for the scheme in hand. 

At the dinner, which began at seven o'clock on the night of December 3d, were the directors and one or two of the largest stockholders of theenterprise; together with all the professors, and some dozen of Russia'scelebrated musicians and writers. The meal over, Anton Rubinstein, originator of the plan, and Zaremba, his able co-adjutor, made briefspeeches. There were one or two impromptu replies; a little discreetcheering; the customary toasts to the Czar and the persons and thesubject in hand; and then Ivan, carried out of his usual shyness, proposed the health of the sister Conservatoire of St. Petersburg, whichwas loyally drank. Afterwards, the same young professor, who hadunconsciously been the cause of the abandonment of the proposed concertafter the banquet--owing to Nicholas' unreasonable anger at therejection of his symphony--himself triumphantly saved the situation andsnatched the evening from the bonds of awkwardness already tighteningupon the guests, who knew that music in some form there must be, but hadno idea of how to compass it. 

The present musical idol of the hour was Glinka; and Ivan, whose pianopractice had always been kept up, went quietly to the big Érard whichstood lonesomely upon the platform at the end of the hall, opened it, seated himself, and dashed into the brilliant overture to "Russlan andLudmilla": playing with such verve and spirit that, ere he finished, every man in the room had gone to augment the group around theinstrument, and Ivan had his audience worked up to any pitch ofappreciation. 

Refusing every demand for an encore, Ivan rose, in the midst of a littlebabel of "_Bis!_" and, taking the _virtuoso_ of the world by the arm, led him to the piano. Well repaid, it seemed, in that moment, for thedisappointment he had lately had to endure. For every face about him wasalive with friendliness and admiration for him and his tact. 

Rubinstein played well, that night; for it was one of those rareoccasions when he let himself go for his friends; and such technique andfeeling as he could display will scarcely be known in the world again. When this was over, and nine-tenths of the company had gone, a chosenfew made their way to Nicholas' apartment, where they sat down to aconvivial little supper, at which, before them all--Kashkine, Balakirev, Laroche, Serov, Siloti, Darjomizky, and, lastly, Monsieur Gounod, whohad not been present at the earlier festivities, Anton Rubinstein liftedhis glass on high and proposed the health of his young friend Gregoriev, in terms before which Ivan would gladly have fled, had it not been forthe shouts of approbation and affection that held him immovable, red-faced, choking, quite unable to reply. 

 * * * * *

Christmas, and the festivities of the new year, approached, proving toIvan a time drearier than usual, in the face of his dying hope of ananswer to the letter written, so long before, to his father, in the oldhouse in the Serpoukhovskaia. One, faint, unfounded expectation, ridiculous though he felt it, Ivan had retained. As week succeeded week, he came to connect Christmas Day with a message, a note, a word, of somesort, from Prince Michael. Afterwards, looking back to his absolutefaith in an event which he had no sort of reason to expect, it seemed asif some lost presentiment had found a mistaken home with him; for heactually spoke to Rubinstein of his visit to his father on that day, asa fact assured. Therefore, when, on Christmas morning, hisfellow-lodgers, together with a gay little party of intimates, set offfor the Slaviansky Bazaar, where they would literally spend the day attable, Ivan answered the friendly urging to join them by a resoluterefusal. It was only when they had left the house, that Nicholasexplained his protégé's reason for remaining behind; nor so much ashinted at his secret doubts, or the fact that he had left a coldluncheon spread on the kitchen-table, in case the mysterious Princeshould not, after all, send for his son. 

When he was left alone, Ivan installed himself at a window of theliving-room, whence he could miss no one who should approach the house, either on foot or driving. He had, for company, the last of Gógòl'ssemi-tragic satires; and the first hour or two of his wait passedpleasantly; the unwonted silence in the rooms being a positive relief. After a time, however, his own thoughts began to intrude themselvesviolently upon the endless argument between Vassily Vassilyitch and theStaroste. So, turning reluctantly from the window, he set himself towork out some problems in his favorite card game, "yerolash": a Russianform of whist; which, despite constant practice, he continued to playvery badly. For some time mathematical feats absorbed him. When, atlast, he finished his third puzzle, Ivan Veliki was booming out thethird quarter after twelve. Rather drearily, he lounged across to thepiano. But to-day there was no music in the heart which, on thecontrary, was growing, minute by minute, more heavy and more sad. Finally, thinking unhappily of the innumerable joyous feasts nowbeginning throughout the city--for late mass would be ended everywhereby now--he sat down alone to the cheerless meal which, poor though itwas, but for Rubinstein he would not have had at all. 

It was nine o'clock that night before the revellers, weary with overmuchcheer, returned. But the extra twinkle in Rubinstein's gay eyes, and thejoyous grin on the flushed face of Laroche, disappeared when, lighting acandle to guide them through the darkened antechamber, they entered theliving-room to find Ivan supine on the divan, sunk into a heavy slumber, the mottled white and red of his stained cheeks betraying a secret neverafterwards referred to by his kindly discoverers. For Ivan's persistentfaith had come to naught. Michael Gregoriev still denied his son. 

The following week of holiday was long enough, and Ivan passed his daysin complete, brooding idleness. But when, at last, on the noon ofJanuary 3, 1867, he returned to his classes at the Conservatoire, theyoung professor set to work with the air of one determined to killevery thought, every memory, of everything save the task of the hour;nor, henceforth, to give place to the slightest suggestion of regret orexpectancy. 

His fury of work lasted long. Day by day Nicholas Rubinstein watched forsome sign of abatement: some lessening of the hours of labor: somelittle indulgence in the way of ordinary recreation. In vain. Ivan tookbarely time enough to satisfy his hunger: slept six or seven hours anight; and was at the piano alike when his companions appeared in themorning, and when they bade him good-night in the late evening. Not onlydid his hours for his own work increase, but he voluntarily added to hiswork at the Conservatoire, where he now remained from one until six, instead of till half-past four, as stipulated in his contract. And welldid Nicholas understand that this was not done for extra money. IndeedIvan had at first begged to relieve his chief of some of his youngerpupils without remuneration of any kind: a suggestion which Nicholas wasfar too generous to permit. Instead, he remonstrated, earnestly, atIvan's taking upon himself this extra amount of work; for, whileteaching was his own forte, Ivan's nature, as he well knew, was capableof higher things. But by March such discussions had long since beendropped: and Rubinstein's whole anxiety now was to note in the youth thefirst signs of inevitable breakdown, that his illness might be taken intime. 

Only Ivan himself, of all their little group, was satisfied with his owncondition. But none of the others knew how deep and how lasting had beenthe disappointment of his father's silence; or that this misfortune, coming on the heels of the rejection of his symphony, had thrown himinto one of those protracted fits of depression, new now even to him, but which were to become familiar to and dreaded by all who cared forhim. He kept himself in a constant state of exhaustion, mental andbodily, in order that sleep should be possible to his idle hours. At thesame time, he was frequently under the Creator's exaltation: the deepdelight of one who knows the quality of that which he is doing, and is, for the moment, satisfied therewith. And the climax of thisecstasy--than which there is nothing finer known to man--came when, onthe evening of March 29th, he carried to his room, from the littleparlor of the "Cucumber, " one more finished manuscript--that of histone-poem, "Day Dreams, " which had been written, rewritten, added to, cut, polished and rounded off till its author knew that not a note, nota rest, not a mark of expression could be altered now by him. He knewalso, in his secret soul, that this was good work--far the best, infact, that he had ever done. For, for weeks and months, the theme hadheld possession of him, and he had put the best of himself into hissubject. Indeed, hurt by the accusation, made in the rejection of hissymphony, of hasty and careless writing, he had worked over his newpiece as he was never to work upon anything again. Indeed its greatfault in the eyes of its admirers to-day, the single one agreed upon byevery critic that has ever understood and loved Gregoriev's work, isthat this alone, of all his creations, is over-polished: faultilyfaultless. 

That night, for many hours, Ivan sat at the desk in his room, poringover his beautifully written manuscript, gloating over it, glorying inthe mere texture of the paper sheets; knowing well that they representedthe best and the highest that lay within him; and that the expressionwas almost worthy of the conception. Next morning, still actingsecretly, dreading, in his peculiar modesty, possible over-praise fromthose who might be prejudiced in his favor, he despatched his preciousbundle to Petersburg, addressed to his old critics and masters, Zarembaand Anton Rubinstein. With it went a brief note requesting, humbly, that they examine it and send him their opinion of its worth. Then, witha long sigh, half of relief, half of sorrow that he had lost thecompanion of so many months, he settled down to put certain lazy, finishing touches to his overture, (already accepted by the Moscoworchestra); to sleep as he would; and dream, delightfully, as only thetrue artist can, of his forthcoming task: his opera, "The Boyar. " Andyet, despite the joys of resting his tired body and yet more tired mind, his contentment was not complete. For each succeeding day increased therestless impatience with which he awaited his letter from Petersburg. 

 * * * * *

At eight o'clock on the evening of April 7th Anton Rubinstein, in theliving-room of his luxurious Petersburg suite, was sitting at his piano, where, spread out before him, were some sixty sheets of finely-writtenmanuscript music:--a piano score. The master was playing from it, contemplatively, a swinging, swaying minor melody, interwoven with anintricate and rich accompaniment. He had reached a pause, betokeningsome change of _tempo_ or key, when the portières were pushednoiselessly aside, and a servitor in livery appeared, announcing:

"The Herr Direktor!"

At once Zaremba, tall, angular, round-shouldered, his fluffy reddishhair and side whiskers looking thinner and fluffier than ever, entered, throwing the garments which he had refused the footman down upon one endof a long, Turkish divan. 

Then the new-comer advanced, deliberately, to the piano, halted in theside angle of the instrument, and returned the long, white-faced starewith which Rubinstein greeted him. Finally the head of the Conservatoireuttered a dry:

"Well?"

The _virtuoso_ shook the long hair back from his face, cleared histhroat, and murmured, hesitating, peculiarly, after each word: "Thething--has--several--good points. "

"Points!" Zaremba croaked, scornfully. "Points!--It's a masterpiece!"

Anton Rubinstein sprang to his feet, oversetting the piano-chair inwhich he had been sitting. "Well--what if it is?"--pacing rapidly upand down. --"What if, by accident, it happens to be--remarkable? Thefellow's a boy--a mere child--in his trustfulness!--And he's never doneanything like this--before. --It'll turn his head, completely--if helearns the--this opinion, of yours. Besides, he'll believe exactly whatwe tell him. And--and--"

"And he might suddenly turn _virtuoso_; in which case MonsieurRubinstein--the _gr-r-reat_ Monsieur Rubinstein--would, at all points, be rivalled!" finished Zaremba, with a dry, malicious grin. 

Rubinstein stopped perfectly still, and maintained a quivering silencetill the speech was concluded. But his two hands were clinched, so thatthe nails turned suddenly blue. Zaremba, seeing this, was about to makean explanation in a very different key, when Anton, in the harshraucousness that serves one who is restraining violent profanity, almostwhispered: "You will have the goodness, then, Monsieur Zaremba, eitherto send me, in the morning, reparation to the amount of--or stay! shallwe, after all, publish those little letters from your friend the Lady ofthe Dyna--"

"Good God! Anton! Surely, surely I'm too useful to you!--Surely youunderstood my little joke, did you not?--Bah! This whiffet of aGregoriev! Why, if his stuff contains anything of any value whatever, hehas stolen it all from what he has seen of your unpublishedworks!--I--I--"

Rubinstein burst into a peal of laughter; and yet, well as he understoodall that this bald flattery stood for, it pleased him:--pleased him, coming from a man whom, years before, in a fit of unwonted generosity, he had saved from usury and blackmail: from one of those Jews who, thenas now, infested Petersburg and terrorized men of standing from the veryimperial family down. Anton had bought Zaremba's wretched debt, and thehalf-dozen innocent love-letters from a young girl who afterwards becamean active Nihilist. And yet Anton Rubinstein, genius, jovial winer anddiner, victim of the devils of envy and jealousy, had actually stooped, more than once, to threaten blackmail to the man whom he knew, in hisheart, to have been guilty of nothing more than a week's unfortunategambling, and an early attachment to a girl who had not returned hisaffection in kind!

Once more, as usual, the pianist won his point; but it took two hoursbefore he would allow Zaremba, his remnant of a conscience once moredeadened by the combined forces of Rubinstein's magnetism, covertthreats, and golden wine, to leave. 

The result of their talk bore immediate fruit. Late in the afternoon ofthe 11th, Ivan Gregoriev sat once more at his bedroom table, and veryslowly, with white face and hands that shook, drew from his coat-pocketthe letter which he had received at the post-office half an hour before, but had been unable to open on the way. Now, after a moment's fumbling, he cut the envelope, took out the effeminate sheet of note-paper, andbegan to read. Second by second his face changed. The letter was notlong; yet before he reached the signature his face had twice flushedscarlet, and twice gone deadly pale. 

It was a half-hour before his door was opened, after a dozen unansweredknocks, and the room invaded by Nicholas Rubinstein. He beheld hisfavorite thrown forward across a table, from which an overturnedinkstand dripped its contents, unnoticed, to the floor. The new-comernever paused for this; for his eyes had fallen on the letter, crushed inone of Ivan's out-stretched hands; and then he gazed upon the body whichhe perceived to quiver, from time to time, with half-conscious, reminiscent sobs. 

CHAPTER XII

THE GODS ARRIVE

At this unprecedented spectacle Nicholas halted, abruptly, uttering someunintelligible exclamation. And Ivan, deep as he was buried beneath hisweight of despair, heard the sound, and reluctantly raised himself, atthe same time grasping the letter anew, till the intruder's attentionwas reattracted by the rustle. 

"Aha!" said he, softly; laying a gentle hand on the young man'sshoulder. "It is thy father that is gone?"

"Gone? My father? Where?" muttered Ivan, stupidly. 

"You are in grief. Is it the death of some one near?"

Then, perceiving at last the drift of his friend's sympathy, Ivan burstinto a harsh, unpleasant laugh. "Oh yes: it is a death. It is the deathof a very ancient vanity of mine: a silly idea that I--that I--had atalent!"

Rubinstein's friendly face took on an expression of slow bewilderment, which began presently to soften into a concern whereat, once more, hiscompanion uttered his mirthless laugh. 

"Oh, I'm not mad, Nicholas Nikolaitch!--You remember my old symphony, and Litoritch's criticism when I sent it up to him?--Well, I was foolenough then not to understand: to go on believing that I--could writemusic!"

"Precisely as you can, " returned the other, roughly. 

Ivan's face quivered--and softened. "No. I will tell thee, my friend!Ten days ago I finished a symphonic poem:--a thing I've been working onfor months. --I didn't dare play it to you. I wanted an opinionabsolutely unbiassed; so I sent the manuscript to--to Zaremba and--yourbrother. Well, they gave me what I asked for. --Here's the letter!" andIvan, stretching his white lips into a smile, tossed the crumpled paperto Rubinstein. 

That burly man seated himself nearer the light, and began to read. Ashis eyes rapidly followed the familiar writing, his face grew crimsonwith slow, unwonted anger. His thick neck swelled. His lips werecompressed, as if he feared to allow the words behind them to escape. But when he had reached the signature, he leaped to his feet and brokeinto one of those torrents of profanity which, rare as they were, unfailingly betokened some vigorous action to follow. 

By the time Rubinstein's immediate rage was spent, Ivan had regained hisown self-possession, save for the gnawing pain that was to lie at hisheart throughout many a long week and month. Nicholas' mood, however, was far from calm. He knew, better than any one save his own brother, the extent of their protégé's magnificent talent. He had heard many afragment of the tone-poem, during its long progress towards completion;and, unconsciously, he had judged it enough to understand the injusticeof that petty and malicious letter; doubtful though he still was as toits immediate motive. True, Nicholas had too often suffered from hisbrother's tormenting jealousy to be by any means blind to Anton's fault. Yet it seemed a preposterous thing that a man with a reputationworld-wide, built on the double foundation of creation andinterpretation, should descend to the meanness of persecuting a mereboy: one whose foot was not yet firmly fixed on the second round of thegreat ladder upon which he himself towered so securely and sohigh!--And yet--had not this same belittling blemish been the bugbear ofhis own, generous existence? Was anything impossible in one whom he hadknown again and again to stoop to the pettiest forms of personal maliceand vindictiveness. 

The big-hearted brother could afford indulgence where only he himselfwas concerned. But this idea that his close comrades must beabused, --this was too much, indeed! The rejection of thesymphony--anything but an amateurish piece of work--still rankled inhim, almost as bitterly as in Ivan. And now this outrage--when any onecould see that the boy was fairly starving for a word of theencouragement he had more than earned--ah! it was intolerable, at last!

In the following hour there passed much further conversation between thetwo; but Rubinstein, while professing every sympathy, never hinted atthe idea that was taking shape in his mind. When he left the bedroom atlast, Ivan felt that, in spite of himself, he should get some sleep; forNicholas had assured him solemnly that, when "The Boyar" should befinished, and the libretto, to be provided by Ostrovsky, properlypolished, he would himself arrange for its production during the ensuingwinter season. And while Ivan stood, dazed and silent, wondering if sucha thing could really be, this great-hearted friend of Russia and Russianart, had seized him by the hand, left a vigorous pound of encouragementon his shoulder, and was gone--shouting, anxiously, as he perceived therelative positions of the hands of his watch. 

Next morning, before Ivan had risen from his protracted sleep, Rubinstein's pupils at the Conservatoire were undergoing three hours ofremarkable instruction. Their burly master cursed them roundly when theyfailed to point out to him a given number of chords of the ninth andseventh, augmented or diminished, in a selected fugue of that madiconoclast Bach; or to mark two dozen examples of canon and counterpointin the first act of the latest opera by the staid pillar of classicism, Richard Wagner! After which betrayal of his mental state, the masterleaped to his feet, jammed his ancient hat over his eyes, called outthat his classes for the next three days were to take their instructionfrom Balakirev, Gregoriev or Laroche; and then, informing them only thathe should return within the week, he rushed out of the building. Aconvenient droschky carried him to his apartment, where he gatheredtogether a bagful of clothes, scribbled Ivan a fictitious explanation ofhis journey, and was soon on his way to the station, where, by amiracle, he caught the Petersburg express. 

 * * * * *

Two nights later, at half-past one o'clock, Anton the world-famedreturned to his rooms from a supper which had followed one of his rarePetersburg recitals. He was in excellent humor; for his success, throughout both sections of the evening, had been precisely to histaste. Seven times had he been forced to encore, before the enrapturedaudience would leave the concert-hall; and at Count Lichtenstein's--thehouse of the German ambassador, he had been lionized till even he wassatisfied. Wherefore was he in excellent humor before, entering hisliving-room, his eyes fell upon the unexpected figure of his brother, who stood silently awaiting him. Nor was Anton long in reading thesignificance of his visitor's expression, before which his own changedutterly. His eyes were dull, his mouth grimly straight as he asked, harshly:

"Well, what is it now?"

"You should gather from your conscience the reason for my highlyuncomfortable journey, " returned Nicholas, in the drawl which neverfailed to rouse his brother to fury. "It's your miserably selfishtreatment of young Gregoriev and his work that's brought me up here soinconveniently. "

Anton turned on his brother, his eyes blazing with swift rage. ButNicholas, with a single glance from his calm, mocking, but deeplypenetrating eyes, once more arrested him. "This boy trusts you so, Anton, believes so utterly in your good faith, the impartial judgment ofyou and your worm, Zaremba, that even you, whose very blood is green, would be moved if you could hear him. --However--where's the manuscriptof the boy's tone-poem?"

"'_Tone-poem!_'--Eureka!--Do you imagine that it actually is music?--ashe believes it, no doubt, to be?--Still, the rot is safe enough--whereyou'll not soon lay your hands on--"

The voice of the Jew was silenced--perforce; for the reason that handswere laid upon him: hands heavy and powerful, full of the righteousanger of a strong man driven beyond himself. And when the hero of therecent supper-party finally lay back in his own chair, panting andwriggling with pain, his mood had changed, perceptibly. 

"Have you dared, " demanded Nicholas, in a voice low and trembling, "toburn the first masterpiece of a genius?"

"I told you it was safe. "

"Do you imagine I believe--Ah well! I take it back to Moscow with me, to-morrow. "

At these words, the smouldering fire in the other's wretched heartleaped up again, and he cried, furiously: "You lie! It is _not_ amasterpiece!--Even Zaremba said that every idea in it had been stolenfrom me!--The thing shall never be played until _I_ choose!"

"Anton, are you mad?--Can you actually heed anything said to you by thejackal who endures your blackmail?--Has your infernal jealousy reachedthe point where you don't hesitate at _crime_?--My God!--My bro--"

"Good Heavens, Nicholas! Since when have you gone into melodrama?" Thevoice was pettish, but the listener was not slow to catch a tremor ofdiscomfort under its attempted loftiness. "As if I cared!--or need tofear such stuff as Gregoriev's!--Go to Zaremba, if you like, and tellhim I sent you for the manuscript. --Much good may it do you!--Oh, yes, take the thing! Have it played! Hear the fools howl over it and praiseit! The day of real greatness is over. Beethoven, and Bach and Mozart, and Rubinstein are to be superseded by the wonderful Wagner--who hasn'ta notion of music in his head! and Serov, the imitator; and nowGregoriev, infant prodigy, picked out of the gutter by me, from whom henow proceeds to steal the only ideas he has about composing!--And hereI, a genius, have slaved all my life away to please a public who desertme in an hour for this--this--"

Wine and emotion, acting together, were making the man almost maudlin. Nicholas knew well what climax ten minutes would bring. So, with a wordor two of friendly thanks and farewell, he left the house, and sought afamiliar hotel, where he was too well known to be refused even at thisungodly hour. 

 * * * * *

In five days from the time of his departure Nicholas was back in Moscow, arriving there in the early evening, and proceeding at once to hisrooms, where he found Ivan alone--Laroche being at the theatre, at thelast performance for the season of Ostrovsky's latest farce. 

As he entered the room, Nicholas read the wistful question in Ivan'seyes, and answered it by tossing him the roll of recovered manuscript, which, with a quivering cry of joy, Ivan caught to his breast and thenretired, precipitately, to his room, whence he did not emerge againthat night. 

But, in spite of its successful recovery, and the high opinionafterwards expressed concerning it by Ivan's own circle, it was manyyears before "Day Dreams" had its initial performance: at a time whenRussia was alive with the name of Gregoriev. Moreover, at that firstperformance the composer was not present. The work, result of so manyhours of devoted labor, had been hateful to him from the evening onwhich he realized the enmity of his hitherto revered and beloved mentor. Though no word on the subject of Nicholas' visit to Petersburg everpassed between Ivan and his benefactor; though for years the semblanceof friendship was retained by the young composer and the great_virtuoso_; three men knew well that Anton's influence over the youngerman was gone, forever. And Anton himself was bitterly aware of theexpression of half-puzzled, half-regretful disdain that he encounteredso often in Ivan's eyes. Indeed both felt, in their secret souls, thatno tone-poem ever written could be worth the price paid for this unhappywork:--which had, nevertheless, through Anton's very jealousy given Ivanthe knowledge that he stood already more than one round above hisfellows on the great ladder of attainment. 

In one way, indeed, the young man had hardly needed this active proof ofhis ability; for, for some time now, there had been growing in him aquality much needed by his kind: a stern, dogged, ineradicable belief inhimself and his eventual recognition. Rooted, as, to the shame ofmankind, has been the lot of so many of the world's true great, in thedeep bitterness of non-recognition; growing, sturdily, in the midst ofbeating storms and freezing snows of jealousy, malice, criticismincredibly stupid, misfortunes persistent and discouraging; such naturesas these are bound at last to blossom, gloriously, in the sunlight ofsuccess; and live, nourished by the quiet dews of appreciation; unless, indeed, as in certain cases, the growth has been too delicate, tooexquisite, too sensitive to outlive the probation years, and fadesbefore it has come into maturity, while the bloom of full achievement isyet in the bud. But Ivan was not of these last. His stubbornness wasgreat; and he labored on, doggedly, sore as was his heart, till Junebrought release from his labors at the Conservatoire. Then he betookhimself and his few belongings joyously back to Vevey, wheresurroundings of natural beauty, rest, isolation, the absence ofunwelcome tasks, gave him back his strength, and restored both his hopeand his ambition. 

During this period his great task was always "The Boyar. " But, in theintervals between his stretches of regular work, he undertook certainlighter things, based on themes jotted down in his note-book at oddmoments. It was, indeed, during this summer, --though Kashkine haserroneously attributed them to a later year, that he produced thecelebrated "Songs of the Steppes, " those "Chansons sans Paroles, " whichthe world hums still, even after a vogue which would, in six months, have killed anything less original, less intangibly charming anduncommon. These finished--and the sheets of manuscript were printed, eighteen months later, almost without change--he caught a sudden feverof entomology: hunted daily for specimens, but preserved, eventually, only six of his captures: a moth, silver and green; a butterfly ofsteely, iridescent blue; a solemn, black-coated cricket; a bee boundround with the five golden rings of Italy; a tiny, rainbow-huedhumming-bird, found dead in a fast-shut moon-flower; and, finally, aslender, bright-winged dragon-fly. These, humanely chloroformed andpasted upon cards, Ivan studied, wondering at his own interest; norunderstood its reason till, by the dark and tortuous ways ofunconscious cerebration, there sprang from his brain, Minerva-like, thesix dances which are incorporated in the most charming ballet of histime the famous "Rêve d'Été. " When, a year later, immediately before itsfirst production, Monsieur Venara, _maître de ballet_ of the RoyalOpera, asked the composer for a special _pas_ for his favorite _premièredanseuse_, Ivan meditated, and returned in spirit to the fields ofVevey, hunting for one more sprite of field or wood. In vain. He couldthink of nothing but an old familiar hedge of eglantine. And to that, finally, was written the "Rose Waltz" to which Mademoiselle Pakrovsky, Venara's "discovery, " later danced her way through La Scala to Paris, that end and aim of the dancer's dreams. 

In September, the musical journal of Moscow announced the return ofyoung Monsieur Gregoriev, a distant relative of the PrinceProcureur-General of that name, who was winning no small reputation as acomposer of light music, and who would resume his professorial duties atthe Conservatoire. It was, moreover, rumored that the summer of MonsieurGregoriev had been no idle one; but that, he having turned for the firsttime to a serious subject, Moscow would that winter have the opportunityof gauging the young man's talent at the Grand Theatre, when, inNovember, Signor Merelli's Italian troupe should begin their season ofwinter opera. 

For once in a way, that the rule might be proved, the greater part ofthis bumptious paragraph was true. Furthermore, as had not been said, Ivan's name was to appear twice on the programme of the first orchestralconcert of the season, over which the two Rubinsteins were now workingbusily. It had been by main force that Nicholas kept two spaces blanktill the return of Ivan from his holiday. But Anton, who was in adejected mood, made no great objection when Ivan, filled with astrange, new sensation of pride, wrote down the titles of twocompositions under his name, on the manuscript programme handed to him, one evening, in his new abode. 

For, this fall, Ivan had taken a long stride towards independence. InAugust Shrâdik had returned to Moscow, to remain throughout the winter. But young Laroche, whose family had lately lost a large fortune, was nowin no position to leave the Rubinstein apartment, where his expenseswere very light. Moreover, Wieniawski the pianist had rented the roomson the fourth floor; and both he nor Shrâdik could be counted on tomaintain a duet scales and exercises during the entire day. Whereforepoor Laroche began to seek the sympathetic stillness of the "Cucumber";and Ivan, after two days in a temporary closet of six feet by eight, setout in search of an abode to fit his income. 

This proved a matter less difficult than he had feared. In fact, withina week he was joyously settled, in a suite of two rooms, with anantechamber and a cubby for his servant, who was, indeed, none otherthan old Sósha, a Gregoriev serf, who, on the day of the proclamation offreedom, more than five years before, had hurried forth from KonnaiaSquare as from the bottomless pit. For years he had led a wanderinglife, missing his former companions and comparatively easy existence, but too stubborn to return to a certain beating, and the plentifulcurses of the Prince. When, then, he one day encountered Ivan issuingfrom a second contemplation of his new quarters, the old man rushed tohim as towards a preserver Heaven-sent; and Ivan was but too glad toaccept the charge. 

Sósha, always, like his generation, a slave at heart, would gladly haveserved his young master without wages and to the death. But Ivan, recently amazed by the announcement of a further increase in hissalary, which now amounted to the princely sum of eighteen hundredroubles a year, offered his whilom servant wages so good that the fellowthenceforth actually refrained from any commission on the marketing andthose other household purchases which Ivan was glad to leave to him. 

Thus it came about that Monsieur Gregoriev was installed in a home ofhis own, in which to maintain his longed-for gods. Their ghostsappeared, in the company of Nicholas Rubinstein, on the night when thisstanch friend came to tell Ivan that, instead of the brief _passacaglia_which he had modestly offered as his first piece on the concertprogramme, it had been decided--on a hearing entirely arranged byNicholas, to make Monsieur Gregoriev the chief figure of the evening, byplaying his first symphony--"Youth, " as the _pièce de résistance_ of thefirst half! Furthermore, he should still be represented in the second bythe little "Sea Picture" already arranged for. Lastly, --and here, atlast, Nicholas spoke with some faint hesitation, it was Anton's expresswish to resign the conductor's baton, during the interpretation of thesymphony, to the composer himself!

"But--but--good Heaven!" stammered Ivan, in a flutter of excitement andincredulity, "it is impossible! Conduct!--I cannot do it! It--it isimpossible!"

The trouble in Rubinstein's mind now stepped forth to his face. "Couldyou not try, Ivan?--I want so much to see you and Anton quitereconciled. And he has suggested this, I think, to prove hisfriendship. "

(Simple-hearted brother! Why could he not remember that Anton was asfully aware as himself of Ivan's inexperience in the art, seemingly sosimple, really inordinately difficult, of leading an orchestra?)

Poor Ivan was as innocent in the matter as Nicholas himself, however:yes, more so. For, never having attempted it, he failed to realize thefirmness, the decision, the executive ability required by him who wouldhold a large body of musicians in intelligent control. At this distance, the matter of conducting his symphony--the orchestration of which heknew by heart--seemed to hold out few difficulties. He considered, alittle, in silence; and then proceeded to discuss the prospect with hisvisitor. 

There were still four weeks before the concert. Work could be begunimmediately. Certainly, during that time, working every day with the menwho were to play his work, he could gain enough confidence, enoughfamiliarity with the difficult points of this one, familiar composition, to carry him through the final event. So, at least, it seemed to the twowho, in their eagerness, were leaving out of their calculation the mostimportant factor in the case: Ivan's unconquerable shyness: hisexcessive modesty: the nervous self-consciousness never yet tried in sokeen a way. But to-night Ivan was wrapped in a dream. A golden mist ofhope gratified, ideals realized, ambition met, hid from him every uglyreality. Consent to Anton's wretched scheme was easily given; and thenthe conversation turned to a theme even more delightful: the forthcomingproduction of "The Boyar, " to which, the concert over, all the energiesof the composer must be turned. 

Later that night Ivan, left alone, dazed and tremulous at the fortunenow hovering within his grasp, laid upon the altar of his gods his firstfruits of success. --Long, long after, when the chimera had become a formradiantly real, Ivan looked back upon this night as perhaps the happiestof his life. That it should be spent in solitude, seemed to him mostnatural. It would have been abnormal to him to seek companionship in anhour of exaltation: desecration to drown the pure delights of theintellect in the artificial ecstasy of alcohol. No. He sat quietly inhis leathern chair, or paced rapidly about the room, occasionallyseating himself at the piano and rippling off portions of the work thatwas to be judged at last by the dread tribunal, whose final verdict wasnot to be reversed: the supreme court of the general public. 

To an on-looker, Ivan's behavior would have seemed commonplace enough. But he was moving through shadowy heavens, star-lit vaults, to which hehad just attained, wherein he floated, the equal of those whom he hadhitherto worshipped: an inhabitant of the kingdom of the gods, fromwhose height he could listen to the echo of his name, cried below by theearth-millions, repeated all around him, in tones of brotherhood, fromthe pale spirits of the surrounding great. And there Ivan knew that hissongs were not of a day, not of a century, but for all time; but shouldstand as the perfect musical expression of the soul of the great, white, desolate country of his birth. Such his achievement, which, in thishour, he knew to be good. And so, as dawn dimmed the golden light of hislamps, Ivan, overcome with weariness, his exaltation fallen, the wine ofhis delight gone flat and stale, crept away to bed, passing into thetransitional sleep whence he must wake to the noon-day light of thestolid, patient, working world. 

Nicholas, having won Ivan's consent to his brother's plan, and sendinghis protégé the first summons to rehearse his numbers with theorchestra, put the affair into Anton's hands. But Ivan, ridiculouslydreading criticism, and the exposure of his awkwardness in handling theunaccustomed baton, possessed also of the senseless idea that, on thefinal day, the thing must go of itself, "somehow, "--daily put off thematter of rehearsal. His excuses were endless and feeble; but they wereall of them readily accepted by Anton, who was now conducting hisrehearsals alone. It was actually within seven days of the concertbefore Nicholas, learning the real state of affairs, rushed off, in afrenzy, to his brother, to seek an explanation and voice a protest. ButAnton's manner was baffling. He was gentle, courteous, and wonderfullysympathetic with Ivan for the occupations that had prevented him fromappearing at rehearsal. He showed his brother a dozen of Ivan's hastynotes of excuse, as he said, soothingly:

"Come, Nikolai, come! What does it signify? Ivan Mikhailovitch isworking very hard; and rehearsals are bothersome things. I shall smoothaway the difficulties and have the orchestra perfectly familiar with hissymphony--which, by-the-way, goes very well. And he will have his backto the audience, and may do what he likes. The orchestra will getthrough; for the concertmeister--Gruening, you know, can manage alone, perfectly. --Don't bother the young man. All will go well!"

Nicholas heard him out standing quite still, gnawing at his mustacheends, and staring, absent-mindedly, into a vague distance, that sawnothing of the expression of gentle inquiry that covered the nervousnessin Anton. Yet Nicholas' sudden apprehension seemed, on reflection, to beunwarranted. Certainly, thought he, Anton's attitude towards Ivan hadcompletely changed. Was he, at last, ashamed, and trying to obliteratethe memory of his jealousy? Certainly so it would seem. And thus, whenNicholas presently left his brother, it was with the sincerestexpressions of gratitude; though, more than once, during his returnwalk, there came to him an unsolicited doubt as to--to--what? Theabsolute openness of Anton's actions?--Scarcely that; and yet so muchlike that that no other explanation could be found to fit the quicklysuppressed pang. 

Pity, truly, that Nicholas could not have watched his brother for thefifteen minutes after his departure! During five of these, the greatpianist stood where he had been left, staring down at the floor, anexpression in his eyes compounded of many emotions. But presently histhoughts resolved themselves. For, throwing back his head, he gave alaugh: a laugh long, rather loud, but replete with anything in the worldsave mirth: suggesting strongly, indeed, the savageness of the frownwhich presently replaced it, when, drumming a scale upon the edge of thetable in front of him, he muttered: "Conduct a symphony played by a fullconcert orchestra without a single rehearsal!--Good Heavens! Nicholas isturning into a fool!"

All things considered, there was certainly a grain of truth in AntonRubinstein's assertion. Still, foolish as Nicholas may have shownhimself over the matter, what was his unwisdom compared to that of Ivan, the proposed hero of the forthcoming inevitable _fiasco_? How to explainsuch behavior on the part of one who was, from the crown of his head tohis toes, thoroughly a musician, a lover of all things musical, evenKashkine, intimate and blind adorer of Gregoriev as his biography ofIvan shows him to be, never discovered. Whether his native shynesssimply put off an evil hour as long as possible: whether, full of theexcitement of giving the final touches to his new work--a business whichalways, throughout his life, made Ivan oblivious of everythingelse, --rendered him really indifferent to the success of his symphony, or whether he really believed conducting to be merely a matter of wavinga baton at each body of instruments as they entered or left the_ensemble_, the principal actor of this little drama never explained. Certainly, at the time, it did not occur to him to divine any purpose inthe Herr Direktor's easy acceptance of the flimsy excuses that he sentto rehearsal after rehearsal. Suffice it to state that Ivan's firstappearance in the greenroom of the Grand Theatre--scene of themuch-discussed concert--was made at half-past seven o'clock on theevening of October 16th: forty-five minutes before the overture wasannounced to begin. Even now, he found himself the last to arrive of thelittle group who were either to take part, or had some professionalinterest in, the evening's performance. These greeted him jovially; but, after he had drunk the glass of sherry pressed upon him, he was drawnone side by two friends, Laroche and Nicholas Rubinstein, whose faceshad sobered into undisguised anxiety. Rubinstein spoke first:

"Are you too nervous to glance through the first page or two of thescore, here?" he demanded, his eyes taking quick review of Ivan'simmaculate costume and rather pallid face. 

Ivan's answering laugh caught Anton's ear. "Nervous!" he echoed. "Ihadn't thought about it. --I know the thing by heart; still--where is thescore?"

Laroche answered silently by holding out to him the thick, leather-boundsheets of the "Youth" symphony; at the same time pointing out to Ivanthat, instead of third, he was to come second on the programme:Mademoiselle Pavario having demanded that she give her _aria_ justbefore the intermission, for the sake of the probable encore. 

Somehow, as Laroche quietly explained this fact, and Ivan, opening hisfamiliar book, discovered for the first time certain blue-pencillings, made therein by Rubinstein during the rehearsals, to indicate thosepassages where some body of instruments were weak, or needed specialwatching, his heart began to throb, unsteadily. Second by second hisdesperate unfamiliarity with the whole thing, his utter ignorance of thetone and temper of the men he was to conduct--their respective abilitiesand faults--were revealing themselves to him. And, presently, he madefor Anton, with a hoarse request that a few of the marks in the firstmovement, at least, be explained to him. Rubinstein was all courtesy, all geniality, all encouragement. But he overdid his part just enough toallow the first quick stab of doubt--or of understanding--to pierce thepoor boy's rapidly crumbling barrier of confidence. When, at last, thedirector was called to his waiting audience, Ivan sat on, like a stone, his eyes riveted on the first page of the score, --which might havecontained pictures of butterflies upon it for all he knew. His heart waspalpitating like a woman's. His head was in a sick whirl. Then, in thehorrid silence in which he sat, a voice from out of the far awayaddressed him:

"Herr Gregoriev, they are ready for you!"

Without a word, his face set, his eyes brilliant, he rose, mechanically, gave his score into the hands of the librarian, who, for ten minutes, had been nervously awaiting it, and then walked woodenly up the passageto the wings. Here somebody grasped his arm and held him for an instant, whispering something unintelligible into his ears. Some seconds, orminutes, or hours, after this, there struck into his eyes the whiteglare of the footlights. Then a thin sprinkling of applause rose to meethis slight, mechanical bow; and, at the same instant, he perceived, sitting in the right-hand stage-box in the first tier, the form of hisfather: his white face barred by the black line of his mustache; theframe of hair above, all iron gray streaked with white. Beyond thisfigure rose a dead wall of black and colored patch-work emphasized byfeatureless white splashes; the whole punctuated, here and there, withgleams of light betokening jewels. 

The hand-clapping died away. Ivan turned, mounted his desk, and liftedthe black baton. He rapped, once, and beheld sixty pairs of gleamingeyes raised to him: rapped twice, and saw thirty bows lifted in air. Then he glanced at the first, open page of his score. --It was simply ahorrible, gray blur, from which not a note, not a mark, would detachitself. --And he wondered, frantically, how in the world his symphonybegan:--loudly or softly? with violins or with trumpets? The secondsthat followed were the longest of his life. Then the concertmeister, sitting below, gave an audible murmur; and, together, the violins andthe woodwinds began the first, long-drawn-out notes of the introduction. 

Heavens! It had begun! He was in for it--hopelessly. Somehow or otherthese terrible men must be kept playing. --How? By whom? Again he lookedat his score, and slowly turned a page. The sound of clarinets smote hisear. They were actually getting on, then. --Good! Out of the mists of histerror, there came, at last, an idea: the wild notion that here, now, came a quick _crescendo_ and climax. With a wide sweep of his baton hesuddenly broke in upon the orchestra and demanded the _tutti_. Gruening, violently tremoloing, swore, helplessly. The men stared. Wildly, oncemore, Ivan indicated full orchestra. So there came one, furious, discordant crash, as all the instruments, obeying, in their customary, hypnotic manner, the motion of their leader, came in, each with hisfirst notes, no matter how far ahead of the present measure they mightbe. The noise was, truly, something hideous! The men themselves grewpanic-stricken; and each group strove madly to bring their particulartheme out of the general chaos; thereby increasing, tenfold, thefrightful _charivari_. [1]

From behind, from the vast audience which, till now, had maintained anamazed stillness, there began to sound little bursts oflaughter--followed by a spluttering streak of hisses which were drownedin increasing shouts of amusement. The thing was really too absurd forlegitimate disapproval. 

Ivan's heart stopped beating. In all his mind there remained but onethought: that Michael Gregoriev, his father, was a witness of thisscene! Yet he felt the touch upon his arm: he was sensible of the kindlywhisper in his ear. Docilely he followed Nicholas off the stage--awayfrom this climactic _fiasco_ of all his wretched series of failures. AndAnton, watching the outcome of the scene he had planned with so muchgusto, felt a sudden pang of intense pity, of remorse, of generosity, shoot through his shrivelled heart. 

Two minutes later, the Herr Direktor was on the stage, apologizingearnestly for the sudden illness of young Monsieur Gregoriev, who hadturned faint as the result of overwork. And then, turning to thedemoralized orchestra, he restored them, by a word and a look, to theirusual order, whence, three seconds later, rose again the first long, sweet strains of the first movement of the symphony, which, this time, was received by the audience with frigid politeness, and many inaudiblecomments on the shocking management that had admitted a drunken man tothe stage before _them_--the cream of Moscow's society!

Moscow society, indeed; but also representatives from other walks oflife. For, as his son retreated from the scene of his disgrace, thesolitary occupant of the right-hand stage _loge_, wrapping himself, faceand body, in a concealing cloak, walked rapidly towards the street, andhad soon left far behind the Grand Theatre, and his last dream ofreconciliation with his son. 

 * * * * *

Late in the afternoon of the following day, the directors of the MoscowConservatoire of Music held a spontaneous meeting, which the presence offour men over a quorum rendered formal. It was for the purpose ofdeciding the question of obtaining a new junior-class professor ofharmony. The matter was hotly debated: several speakers maintainingthat, after the affair of the night before, it would be impossible forMonsieur Gregoriev to retain either the interest or the respect of hispupils. It was remarkable, however, that only one man--a person who hadnever met the person under discussion, referred to the prevalent rumorof intemperance. 

The door to the directors' room remained shut for two, ominous hours. But when the inmates appeared again in the light of day, their generalexpression was cheerful; and the list of Conservatoire professorsremained unchanged. Ivan was to be spared this final humiliation. Fornot only Nicholas, but Anton Rubinstein himself, fought gallantly forhis retention. And it was undoubtedly the influence of the great_virtuoso_ which turned the scale in his favor. --Moreover, it may besurmised, and by no means without justification, that, even had Ivantemporarily lost his position, the following winter would have seen itonce more offered to him; though his acceptance might have proved a moredoubtful matter. As it was, his gratitude towards the various members ofthe committee was as deep as it was silent. 

Certainly, without this possible, additional unhappiness, Ivan's cup ofmisery was, for the moment, full. During the morning after the fatefulconcert many people--all of them cruel, many wantonly malicious, knockedat Ivan's door. Two only were admitted--neither of whom could come underthe general category. One of these was Nicholas Rubinstein; the otherLaroche. Probably, of all the world, only these two understood Ivan atthis time. But their understanding and their love stood them in poorstead now. He whom they sought to comfort lay deep in a hell of his own, from the very threshold of which they were barred away. Later, throughthe hours of the meeting--which Ivan silently divined--Laroche remainedalone with him. And Nicholas' return, with news of victory, in somemeasure lessened his agony of shame. But it was weeks before he wasknown to show his face outside of his own rooms or the Conservatoire;for he gave way, unresisting, to the morbidness always lying in wait forhim. And all Rubinstein's upbraidings, all the eloquent logic ofLaroche, could move him to nothing but the reiterated statement that, years before, at his court-martial, he had been conscious of no faultfor which to lower his head; whereas this time--alas!--he had beenguilty of many more than one: of laziness; of preposterous vanity;finally, worst of all, of that unpardonable cowardice andself-consciousness whereby he had lost his final hope of scrapingthrough the ordeal--by means of his native wit and the experience andinfluence of the concertmeister Gruening. 

In the end, Nicholas, --always, forever, this good Rubinstein, set towork to manufacture a bomb which should, in one instant, blow tofragments the walls of Ivan's self-constructed hermitage, and bring himforth again into the free light of heaven--and work. And this difficulttask he did, as a matter of fact, accomplish. For it was on an eveningin the latter half of November that he and Laroche entered Ivan's roomsat the customary hour, but with new light in their eyes. Waiting onlytill the fire was replenished and pipes drawing well, Nicholas observed, between puffs:

"Well, I've had my final talk with Merelli; and I have brought with me, for signing, the contracts covering the production, to be made on NewYear's night, of your opera, 'The Boyar. '"

Ivan stiffened for an instant; then sank dully back, saying, without awhit of expression in his voice: "Don't tease me any further about oldvisions, Nikolai. --Even from you that comes hard. "

Nicholas' reply was to draw from his pocket a thin roll of paper, which, separating into duplicate, printed sheets, each bearing at its end thespluttering signature of the _impresario_, he spread out on Ivan's knee. 

As the young man, with changing, wondering, finally uplifted, expression, ran slowly through the document, Nicholas prevented anypossible expression of obligation by a running fire of comment andexplanation. 

"Won your spurs, you see, Ivan!--Royalties not great; but there'llcertainly be a thousand or two for you. --Give you a great push, now thatyou've done what we all have to go through before we get there. --I didit, you know, years ago, in Hamburg!--Simply stopped at the secondmovement of the Italian symphony and walked off the stage. --Kneesshaking so I couldn't stand up. --Even Anton lost himself in the LeipsicTönhalle, once, in the middle of his own _cadenza_ to a Beethovensonata:--had played it a hundred times, I suppose; tried it twice, andthen fairly ran out of the room. --Laroche there, can't expect any realluck till he's done it too. --What form'll you take it in, Grigory?--Hey?--Finished, Ivan?--Well, I'm convinced that it is as wellas we can do for you the first time. So you'd better sign it now--usingus for witnesses--and I'll carry 'em back to Merelli myself, to-morrow. "

So Ivan, lips twitching, hands trembling very much, put a shakysignature in each space indicated below Merelli's sprawling Italiandashes, while Nicholas and little Laroche looked on with shining eyes. 

Thereupon began the era of a new and difficult experience. Healthy aswas the occupation, Ivan wished a hundred times in those ensuing weeksthat he had been seized with an apoplexy before ever he had put his nameto the contract that gave him into Merelli's hands. --As a matter offact, the ordeal was one trying enough for nerveless men. But to Ivan itwas simply a process of refined torture, in the course of which everyone of his petted peculiarities of style, the most cherished of hissituations, the choicest of his originalities, were ruthlessly cut, altered, or swept calmly away:--a perfectly correct and artisticproceeding, and agreeable to every one except the author. 

No cutting of rehearsals now! In fact, for his reputation and the lifeof his suffering opera, Ivan dared not be away from the opera-houseduring a single hour of that hurried preparation. For, in those days, nocomposers had so little right in Russia as Russians: no music was soneglected, so criticised, so under-estimated in the land of snows asthat produced by the great pioneers of the highest of the arts. And yet, in that same Russia, any nonsense whatever that came out of Italy, gotimmediate hearing and sickening praise. The opera-houses of every citywere given over, during the season, to Italian troupes. And if these didoccasionally consent to perform some native work, it was always on an"off" night, with third-rate members of the company, in cast-off, inappropriate costumes, surrounded by worn-out scenery, and accompaniedby the "ballet" orchestra--which contained about half the regulationinstruments. 

Most of these humiliations, it soon appeared, were to fall to the lot ofthe unfortunate "Boyar. "--Still, New Year's night usually promised agood-sized audience; and the chorus was actually to be put into newlydesigned costumes. But the singers had considered, long ago, that plansfor the winter were finished. Therefore this was a preposterous time tobegin rehearsals for a work entirely new. The prima-donna and the firsttenor simply scouted the idea of applying themselves to learn newrôles--and in a _Russian_ opera! Merelli must be out of his head to setabout such a thing!--Ivan, it is true, might have been encouraged had heheard the opinion of his work expressed by Merelli to his refractorysingers. --It was a masterpiece; the finest opera, be it Italian, Frenchor Russian, of the decade! etc, etc. --And indeed, had the _impresario_not actually believed something of this sort, no pleadings of Rubinsteinwould ever have got it accepted at this time of year. But the parts asthey were finally cast might well have discouraged a man more tranquiland more experienced than Ivan: who, moreover, would have regarded asinsane the person telling him that, in his secret heart, more than onemember of the troupe beside Merelli thought the opera under preparationfar ahead of the usual run of saccharine Italian concoctions habituallyraved over by the sentimental world of the time. 

But alas! What wretchedness it was to listen, day by day, from his emptybox, to the throaty warblings of Finocchi--whose pronunciation ofRussian was as near Chinese or Hebrew as the Slavic tongue: to arguevainly with La Menschikov, the soprano, who, to Ivan's unboundeddisgust, used every vocal trick invented by the melodramatic Italians, from a revolting _tremolo_, and a barefaced _falsetto_ to anincorrigible persistence in the _appoggiatura_, an affectationpeculiarly unadapted to Ivan's rich, strong style. Many a concertedpassage, moreover, did he, in silent despair, alter to suit the stubborninabilities of the singers, who insisted that the composer knew nothingof the possibilities of the human voice:--a criticism, indeed, passedmore than once on Ivan's later works, and by those who knew whereof theyspoke. The climax came on a late December afternoon, when, after a threehours' struggle with a single passage, the contralto went intohysterics, the soprano flew into a rage that promised to keep her offthe boards for a week, and Finocchi retired to his dressing-room vowingto resign his part. The cause of this united rebellion was the rhythm ofa quartet in the third act--by far the best concerted piece in theopera--in which the two high voices sang four eighth notes againsttriplets in the base. 

This passage had, up till now, been held in abeyance by Merelli, who hadforeseen difficulty. And, now that it was reached, it proved a reefindeed. For, of the four singers, only the basso had any conception oftime. Thus when Merelli, in despair, came apologetically to Ivan tosuggest an alteration of the rhythm--which made the whole beauty of thesong--Ivan rose from his place swearing, savagely, that not one othernote in the score should be altered; but that Merelli and his wholetroupe might go to perdition when and how they chose; after which heleft the theatre, sought out Nicholas, flung his contract in that goodman's face, and requested that he go at once to Merelli with word thatthe score be returned, with all its parts, and the entire transactiondeclared off. 

Next morning, at ten o'clock, Ivan heard his quartet sung with astrictness of _tempo_, rhythm, and expression, far surpassing anythingyet accomplished by any of the principals of the company. 

 * * * * *

By Christmas week, all Moscow knew that a Gregoriev opera, _TheBoyar_--"written by the man who had been too drunk to conduct hissymphony in the previous October, you know"--(as good an advertisementas any, and costing nothing)--was to be produced at the Grand Theatre, at eight o'clock on the evening of January 1, 1868; the evening'sballet, "Rêve d'Été" being by the same composer. Ivan's friends were ina state of high excitement at a prospective success of which Merelliseemed very sure. But they suddenly discovered that the composer himselfhad not the slightest intention of being present to hear his work. Forthree days they besieged Ivan with expostulation, incredulity, persuasion. All in vain. When, twenty minutes after the hour on thenight named, the curtain rose, disclosing to the chorus a house packedto the doors, the composer's box--reserved for him--contained only thetwo Rubinsteins, Balakirev, Kashkine, and Laroche. Ostrovsky, thelibrettist, was behind the scenes, still on his knees before theMenschikov, in a mad endeavor to obtain her promise to abstain from theFrench habit of adding an _e_ to the end of every word. 

Ivan, deserted even by Sósha, who had a seat in the topmost gallery ofthe opera-house, sat before his dying fire, enduring the last throes ofthat long struggle for recognition which, he believed in the depths ofhis soul, was finally to end, to-night. It is seldom, indeed, that theredoes not linger, however unwelcomed, one little shred of hope for thesuccess of one's own work. But with Ivan there now remained not eventhis. The struggle of the past weeks, the glaring imperfections that hadcrowded yesterday's dress rehearsal, had brought him despairunutterable. Up to yesterday afternoon, all had been hopelessly wrong. And the last thing he had heard, on the previous day, as he fled thetheatre, had been the loud echoes of the latest quarrel between MesdamesMenschikov and Castello, in which the former sat alternately revilingher companion and wailing that her voice, on the morrow, would be a merehoarse shred. This Ivan did not doubt:--and the first important solo ofthe first act, whereby he had planned to capture and hold the interestof the audience, depended wholly upon her!--Moreover, Finocchi'scostumes, finished barely in time for the dress-rehearsal, had beendiscovered to be hopeless anachronisms, which the ridiculous little manhad violently refused to have altered in the least. --And the result ofMerelli's last, special appeal, Ivan had not cared to learn. 

These incidents, and many earlier ones of his long season of trial, whirled in a numbing chaos through Ivan's tired brain, wreathingthemselves in malevolent phantasies about the undimmed picture of hisbald failure at the concert, in the presence of his father. Indeed, unsuspected though it remained by any of his friends, it was really thisfact of Prince Michael's witness of his misfortune--his seconddisgrace--which, through all these months, had been eating, like somepoisonous acid, into the very vitals of Ivan's manhood, Ivan's courage. It was evident to him that his father, having somewhere beheld aprogramme of the concert, finding his son's name in famous company, haddetermined to give him one more chance of favor. He had come to hear thesymphony: to find out whether, after all, the last Gregoriev were worthsomething. And--he had found out, indeed!

Thus, for the thousandth time, the unhappy man reviewed the history ofthe past three months. Minutes dragged themselves away. His thoughtsgrew less keen. The intense nervousness that had possessed him earlier, diminished. Little by little his pulses quieted, his temples ceased tothrob. He sat wondering, vaguely, what new labor his hands must turn to, now that he had proved himself a fool in the profession he loved. Hiseducation might, possibly, be found of some account. There were suchthings as army coaches, he believed:--poor, broken-down creatures, living upon broken possibilities and the sale of their commissions. Thenthere recurred the memory of his old tutor, Ludmillo. He had not alwaysbeen unhappy. His life had been dull enough, certainly; but there wasnothing of this hideous notoriety in it. He--perhaps--

The great Kremlin clock sent twelve, slow strokes booming through thefrosty air. Ivan started, suddenly. --By now, at least, the performancemust be at an end! And--nobody had come to him!--They had alldreaded the breaking of the news. Even Sósha:--Then it _had_failed!--Failed. --Ah, that spark of hope! Good Heavens! Had it actuallyexisted, after all? Why else this terrible pain? this sickness? Thisconscious pallor?--Nonsense! Had he dreamed of anything else for onemoment? He tried, desperately, for a shred of philosophy; and then foundhimself pacing the floor, knees trembling, heart in throat, that senseof nauseated faintness boding little good to a man seekingtranquillity. --Truly, it was in the ten ensuing minutes that the climaxof his long, desperate struggle was reached, at last. 

Hark! What hear we afar off? This pæan of trumpets? this rolling ofchariot-wheels? No ghosts, to-night. Surely, this time, these are thegods themselves, that wait without this humble door!

At least the sound that smote Ivan's ears was real enough. A burly fistwas pounding on the knocker. An instant's pause. Then--ah, then he flew, shakily, to open;--to be greeted by a volley of wreaths, of ribbons, more precious yet, of flowers--just single, spontaneous flowers, perfumed and wilted from their recent warm contact with human flesh, aspangle or a shred of lace still hanging to more than one audaciousthorn!

Ivan, surrounded, heaped, by these tributes, deathly white and visiblyshaking now, received the rush of a dozen men, and, --wonder of wonders, one woman! For presently, out of the mêlée of shaking hands andemotional bear-hugs, he found himself gazing into the velvet eyesof--Irina Petrovna, from whom, hopelessly dazed, he turned to the dampand shining face of Nicholas Rubinstein; (Anton, be it observed, nothaving come!)

"What are you doing?--What is it all?" he asked, wearily. 

"What is it?--Oh, wonderful truly it is, that you've come at last toyour own, Ivan! that Russia holds out her arms to you: that all Moscowis yours: that _The Boyar_ is the opera of the century; and you are theman of--"

He stopped, perforce. Ivan's arms had risen, trembling. His lips haduttered one, slight cry. And then, without warning, he pitched forward, over the tumbled wreaths, into the waiting bosom of his gods. 

[Footnote 1: This incident is not fictitious; but was an actualoccurrence in the life of one of the most distinguished of Russiancomposers. ]

CHAPTER XIII

STUDENT'S FOLLY

Morning, with its usual mood of depressed calm, brought with it, forIvan, a pessimistic disbelief in the reality of the recent midnightscene. Nevertheless he had curiosity enough remaining to cause him tohurry through his dressing and then run out to buy all the papers of theday. The result was that by the time Sósha appeared with the earlysamovar, Ivan was in the clouds again. Buoyancy had set every nerve totingling; and the elation of the knowledge that success had actuallycome, quivered from him like a rosy aura. 

Beyond doubt, "The Boyar" had at last opened to Ivan the long-lockeddoor of recognition. No Russian opera, it seemed, "Russlan and Ludmilla"possibly excepted, had gone home to the hearts of the Russian people ashad this piece of youthful work, which, though its merit was perfectlygenuine, was by no means free from faults. At the opera-house itself, every one, from the Menschikov to Merelli and the chorus, was in a stateof beaming delight. Already Madame Pervana and the august Limpadellohimself had gone quietly to the Signor Impresario with the suggestionthat possibly, after all, the parts of Marie Vassilievna and the Boyarwere suited to their respective talents; and that it was a pity to allowRussian musical progress to be intrusted to such well-meaning butincompetent persons as the second soprano and tenor. 

To the indignation of the prima-donna, however, the Menschikov, who, inthe end, had risen to no small heights in her interpretation of thehapless Marie, was allowed to retain the rôle. But Ivan had the reliefof seeing Finocchi of the hopeless ear replaced by Limpadello, throughwhom the quartet was now firmly united and became the sensation of thewhole, sensational piece. 

In the eight weeks of January and February, the opera was given eleventimes. During the latter month the St. Petersburg company began torehearse it; and at the end of March, on the Monday after Easter--one ofthe great nights of the year--Ivan and Ostrovsky sat together in astage-box, watching the delight of one of the most magnificent audiencesever assembled in the Grand Theatre. The performance was as faultless asa performance can be made; and, as a final compliment to the composer, his own "nature ballet" was performed, with Mademoiselle Ellsler, whohad come from Vienna for the purpose, in her already famous _pas seul_of the Butterfly. Before the last curtain descended, Ivan had beenforced upon the stage beside his companion, to respond to the franticplaudits of the men and women who, a few years before, had turned fromIvan Gregoriev as from one accursed. 

After the opera there was still a long and hilarious supper, given byMerelli, to be endured; and when, an hour or two before dawn, Ivanfinally reached his rooms, he found upon his table a sealed envelope, unaddressed. Opening it, there fell to the floor a packet of notes fortwo thousand roubles, together with a little slip of paper containing, in his father's writing, the words:

"You have deserved this; but I do not wish to see you. "

The wish was obeyed. But the money, after some hesitation, Ivan spent. 

Final success after long and bitter waiting is apt to prey curiously onthe human character. Ivan took his oddly enough. His intimatefriends--the only people to whom hitherto he had showed common civility, became first amazed, then chagrined, finally infuriated, by his suddenchange of front. By swift degrees he ceased his intimacy with them all:Laroche, Kashkine, Balakirev, nay, Nicholas himself. And by mid-April hefound himself scarcely on speaking terms with one of them. 

Angered, hurt as these men were, they naturally put Ivan's behavior downto a sudden turning of the head. One only of them all, and he, had theybut known it, the most deeply hurt, failed to censure, and guessed atsomething like the truth: that the young man, suddenly weary of his longterm of unceasing labor at his profession, was seeking temporaryplaymates from another sphere. 

In this spring of 1868, Ivan was nearly eight-and-twenty years of age. In knowledge of the gray and ugly sides of life, he was twice as old. Only in experience of the frivolities of existence was he deficient, hiseducation there having been cut off in its heyday. It was towards this, then, towards young companionship and youthful pleasures, that his heartturned with irresistible longing. His former associates and their drydiscussions and pursuits, the round of petty rivalries, the continuallife of the shop, tortured his nerves. Music itself, his great goddess, became unworshipful, wearying to his very soul. Thus, repudiating her ina night, he set forth in all the glory of a cleansed record and a fullpocket, to hunt for pleasure. His Conservatoire classes he changed fromafternoon to morning; and, though he taught abominably, Nicholas keptthe dire red notice from him by doing much of his work over after him, that he might be free for once to laugh with the spring. 

The quarter to which Ivan turned for his recreation would havesurprised his comrades not a little; and young Laroche would curtly havedenied the truth that he had been responsible for his colleague's typeof amusement. Nevertheless it was he who had been responsible forbringing Irina Petrovna and her brother to Ivan's rooms on the night ofthe opera, inspired, rather maliciously, by some faint memory of the oldcourt-martial proceedings, and the long intrigue deduced by every onebetween Ivan and the girl. That night, after Ivan's recovery from hisfainting-fit, Irina's brother, Sergius, had, on request of the youngcomposer, given Ivan the address in the student quarter where he and hissister were living. Old Petrov was dead. Irina had freed herself longago from her Petersburg connections; and now she was keeping up tworooms on ten roubles a month, while her brother finished his medicalcourse at the university. 

On the morning after the opera, brother and sister discussed the vaguepossibility of Ivan's visiting them. Irina had no difficulty in hidingfrom Sergius just how much the hope meant to her; but there was no ideaof concealing the same thing from herself. As the days passed and Ivandid not come, she grew almost frightened at her own disappointment, discovering only now, perhaps, that there could never be any other manin her life who could make her feel the extremes of emotion. In twoweeks she had gone through every stage from eager expectation to apathy;and then, suddenly, during the last, vague flicker of dying hope--hecame; and her life grew red again. She was even content that he shouldevince most interest in men--her brother and the fellow-students thatthronged their rooms at all hours. Of these, one and all regarded thevisitor as a great and wealthy personage; and yet none could long remainunfriendly before the gay simplicity which speedily made Ivan as one ofthem. By rapid degrees their intercourse became intimate; and Ivanbelieved that their minds, their dreams, their trials, were as open tohim as his to them. If they were not, if their secret hopes and theall-powerful reason for their community spirit remained sedulouslyconcealed, this was, in truth, still greater proof of their friendshipfor him; for there were few of the hated upper class that they wouldhave scrupled to use in their own way for their own purposes. 

It was odd, perhaps, that Ivan never perceived how often his entranceinto their rooms stopped or turned the conversation; though perhaps muchpersonal sacrifice had been made for that meeting. They had all come tobe proud of the young composer's fondness for them; and they held atacit agreement that he should never, through them, be placed in danger. For, though Ivan saw it not, the shadow of the rope, or of the distant, frozen, Siberian mines, hung over this little band of youths by day andby night, sleeping and waking. He had fallen upon the very centre of thefirst students' brotherhood: an alliance formed a few years before, during that unique revolution of Russian youth which resulted in thebirth of Nihilism. 

It was about the year 1860, when the question of abolition was shakingthe Bear from head to tail, that this unique movement began. By someobscure trait of national heritage, there sprang up, almost at the samehour, through the mediæval gloom that still enveloped Peter's Empire, athousand points of unwonted light. They were to be found burning at oncein the twilight of isolated manors and the midnight of the serf's hut:in the city palace, and its neighboring tenement. Yet they sprang upamong one class only--the young men and the young women of the race. Thelight was the light of intellectual desire for education, for science;and by it all Russia was presently set ablaze. In the history of mankindthere is to be found no such tale of bloodless civil war as here. Youngmen and delicately nurtured girls were casting off every tradition ofclass, of custom, of convention, assuming the right to go forth freelyto the universities, to study: willing, nay, glad, to renounce not onlythe luxuries but the comforts, almost the bare necessities of existence, they assumed the burden of dogged labor under almost unbearable poverty. Finally, bitterest of all, came the breaking of love-forged chains;the piteous, fruitless struggle of children to explain theirposition to their parents, members of that older generation whocould not understand, who would not yield, who capped defeat bydisinheritance. --Such were the battles of this war; such the suddenmarvellous development of higher education in Russia. 

Many were the virtues of this little army of youths and maidens. Theyworked together in perfect harmony of theory and practice. There washonor among the men; there was faith among the women. The wonderfulhistory of Sonya Kovalevsky, delicate daughter of a noble house, whobecame the first woman to occupy a university professorship in Europe, was repeated a thousand times with humbler results. Nor have therefailed to linger innumerable stories of those _mariages defacilité_--levers used simply to force the freedom of some toowell-guarded aspirant for knowledge. And all of the young men married, in an hour, to girls whom they had never before seen, not ten, perhaps, failed in giving chivalrous protection, or ever took the possible, crueladvantage of this last, desperate ruse to escape the fetteringguardianship of parentage. 

But unhappily, though scandal scarcely raised its head among the sinceremembers of the youthful army, other ills as far-reaching and even moredangerous began soon to sow seeds of evil and of suffering among them. For out of the fermentation arising among these isolated bands, came thebitterest drink that Russia has had to swallow. Poverty, alienation, the common cause against a common enemy--how should it not breedsocialism? That established, where find a lack of bolder spirits to takethe short step into downright anarchy? Whether it was Turgeniev orLermontoff who first interpreted this infant Credo, what matters it? Asin a night, lo! on every lip was the dread word that was destined to beblazoned in bloody letters at the head of the next and grimmest chapterof all Russian history: Nihilism. 

Indeed, indeed, had these young men and women found their littleknowledge a deeply dangerous thing! Too quickly they perceived theimperfections of their government, the corruption rife among theofficials of every class. And bitter was their reproach. The question tothem seemed simple. To correct this, at once and forever, dig up thevery soil in which the corruptive roots expanded--here was the way, theonly way. And immediately there followed pamphlets and articles. Secretmeetings, propagandist organizations, flooded the land. And the red flagwas everywhere raised and acknowledged as the student symbol. 

It was down upon the southern bank of the Moskva that the three or fourthousand students of the Moscow University formed their colony, taking, as it were, communal possession of that narrow neighborhood. ThereSergius and Irina dwelt, in circumstances a little better than those oftheir friends. They kept the rent of their rooms paid; and, moreover, itwas a rare thing for a starving youth to drop in on them and find theirsamovar cold, or their welcome unready. Sergius was himself, indeed, theheart and soul of his branch of the brotherhood; and from him hademanated none knew how many screeds and pamphlets upon his favoritetheme. Irina, relying on him as the last protector of her family, questioned none of his plans, but found in his manner of life much thatdelighted her Bohemian soul. 

Now, into their unstable existence, came Ivan; and over him brother andsister had their first dispute: Irina her first victory. True, Sergiusknew, and was to know, nothing of his sister's past acquaintance withthe composer, or what a debt he, as a brother, owed Ivan. In his eyesGregoriev was simply a man of the world, unknown to the police, and, therefore, a valuable tool. After that first visit to their rooms, Sergius unfolded to Irina his purpose for the use of her evidentadmirer, which, to his utter amazement, the girl vehemently opposed. Bywhat tortuous way she managed in the end to reach his deeply hiddenscruples, who can say? Suffice it that, shortly, word went round to theeffect that this one guest of the Quarter, though he was to be accordedprivileges of comradeship, must remain a stranger to the innersignificance of the prevalent red flag. Whereupon Irina, breathingfreely, entered, for a few weeks, into the Kingdom. 

The brief chapter of Ivan's life in the student quarter proceededmerrily to its dramatic close; and, until that close, Ivan remainedutterly oblivious of his or the others' danger. 

It was in the first week of the queen of months--the May-time, thatGregoriev took it into his head to return the oft-repeated, meagrehospitality of the Akheskaia, by giving a birthday supper to Sergius, onthe night of the 10th. The idea had been born in him through somemention of the date by Irina, and a casual regret that their recentcontribution towards Burevsky's new chemical outfit must preclude anyhope of even the simplest celebration. Whether her speech had beeningenuous or not, it did not occur to Ivan to inquire, so pleased was heat thought of an opportunity of doing something for his new friends atlast. Certainly Irina's finished suggestion accomplished its purpose toperfection; for, within three days, the affair was under way and theinvitations accepted to a man--and one damsel. 

It came as a surprise and an unpleasant one that news of this modestfestivity should have gone abroad; but that the fact should be objectedto, and that by persons unknown as well as known, was as annoying as itwas preposterous. Four days before the affair, Ivan went through ahighly unpleasant scene with old Nicholas Rubinstein, who came to beghim to give up his acquaintance in the Akheskaia, and remained tobeseech, with an earnestness a trifle startling, that he would, atleast, put off this supper. When finally his defeated friend had gone, though he had preserved towards him a courtesy that was as admirable asit had been cutting to old Nicholas, Ivan sat down to his piano feelingtroubled at heart, uneasy in mind. Nor were either of these feelingslessened when, a quarter of an hour later, old Sósha, after someunintelligible parley at the door with a being unknown, came limping into his master bearing two notes--notes that bore no post-mark, but wereboth tightly sealed. The first was clear enough:

 "Let Ivan Gregoriev go to the records in his father's office and verify the day of Sergius Lihnoffs birth. --November 19, 1844. Let him also see whether the story of the attempted murder of Guttenrog, at Kiev, in July 1861, is not to be found upon the same, or the next, page. Monsieur Gregoriev should be better acquainted with the guests whom he honors by his invitations. 

 "ONE WHO KNEW SOPHIA IVANOVNA. "

As his eyes traversed the last line, Ivan trembled a little, and grewsuddenly faint. His mother's name!--How long ago since he had heardit. --His mother!--His mother's name used in a denunciation?--Faugh! Itwas a trap. Nevertheless he sat rigid, frowning, lost in thought, formany minutes before he lifted the other missive, addressed this time ina hand that seemed vaguely familiar. 

 "DEAR FRIEND, --You do too much for those who deserve nothing at your hands. Serge and I cannot repay you for your kindness; but we need not be too greatly indebted to you. It is my fault that you are to give this supper. It is I who ask you to give it up. --I implore you, Ivan Mikhailovitch, give it up; or, if it must be, change the date from Thursday to Sunday--and change it at the last minute. Also, if you pity me, do not show this to Serge, or to any one we know. 

 "Ivan, I wish to help you. Believe that, and accept the sincere compliments of

 "IRINA PETROVNA. "

Three times did Ivan read this curious note, meditating the while on thereason for the obvious fear in which it was written. Certainly theeasiest way to discover her reason, was to talk to her alone. If he wentdown to the Quarter, could he manage a _tête-à-tête_?--If not, could henot take her for a walk--out for tea? Any of a hundred little ruseswould serve him. Yes, he would go! And, springing up, he ran to hisbedroom to dress. 

Ten minutes later he opened the outer door of his apartment. As hestepped out upon the landing, he twisted his foot in a sudden effort toavoid stepping on a white envelope that had been pushed half-way underthe door. 

So there were more of them!

Laughing, a little sardonically, Ivan picked up the letter and turnedback into his living-room again. The envelope of this missive, unlikethe others, bore only his name, not the address. Within, it was undated, unsigned, and began abruptly:

 "Monsieur Ivan Mikhailovitch Gregoriev, of whom, politically, the government as yet knows no wrong, is nevertheless respectfully warned against further association with the students of the brotherhood in the Akheskaia. Let Monsieur Gregoriev assure himself of the character of his associates before proceeding with an intimacy which the government will be unable long to overlook. 

 "K. By order of M. --O. G. I. "

"M. , Official Government Inspector!"--here, at last, wastangibility. --And yet--the seal? The great, red, double-eagle, so longfamiliar to him as dangling from the documents that were forever in thehands of his father:--where was it?--Besides, the whole thing wasunofficial. --There was neither heading nor arms. --It was a hoax--atrick--possibly of Laroche, or Ostrovsky, or some other of that formal, jealous lot. They thought to drive him from his friendships bymalicious, anonymous calumny, then? calumny of a body ofpoverty-stricken, half-starved men, working disinterestedly for the sakeof science, --ah! That was a generous thing to do!--As for Irina'sletter, well, she had all a woman's inconsistencies and whims. She hadgot some silly notion of pride in her now. By Heaven! He would not evengo to see her. He would merely write a formal little note reminding herof the date and the hour of his supper--six o'clock on Thursday evening. And then, though all Russia, though the Czar himself forbade, he shouldgive Sergius his festival, or go to prison before the day. 

 * * * * *

Punctually, then, at the hour named, on Thursday, May 10th, there satdown to the flower-strewn table in Ivan's rooms seven persons--six menand one woman, they being all but one of the company asked. The chairbetween Sergius and Féodor Lemsky was to have been occupied by YevgenyBurevsky, the young man who had been the recipient of those "scientificinstruments" for which the whole Quarter was still out of ready money. It was Sergius himself who explained to their host that, ever since hehad received his outfit, Burevsky had been tirelessly working at hischemistry. Thus, that afternoon, when his friends called for him ontheir way to Ivan, they had found him just nearing the end of a long anddifficult experiment which could not be left. It should, he said, befinished between half-past six and seven, upon which he would hasteninto his clothes and take a droschky at once for the house of his host. If anything went wrong, however, he sent his sincere regrets andapologies to Ivan, begging him to excuse an unpolished workman for hisseeming rudeness, and sending a thousand thanks for the kindness of theinvitation. 

Sergius gave the excuse so pleasantly, in a manner so engagingly frank, that Ivan readily accepted it, nor noticed how fixedly Irina was staringdown into her plate, while the four other young men sat in moodysilence, their faces--this their host did perceive--looking singularlypallid and drawn. 

Calling out for more candles and champagne--which were brought by twofootmen, hired, for the occasion, to serve the dishes which old Sóshaand the neighboring pastry-shop between them had concocted, --Ivan, seconded by Sergius, who was in high spirits, set himself to bring lifeto his party. He found this unexpectedly easy. In fact, after a minuteor two, one might almost have said that the hilarity became a little tooboisterous, that the laughter almost bordered on the hysterical, thatthe humor seemed rather blurred for this stage of the evening. Then, _presto!_ the room was in a nervous hush, while Irina lifted a quiveringglass to the candle-light, and, in a voice not her own, proposed atoast:--The complete success of Yevgeny Burevsky's experiment, and--andhis speedy appearance among his waiting friends. 

Ivan heard a breath, indrawn, run round the table like a hiss, and heturned his eyes rather sharply on the girl as Sergius cried out:

"Come, are you all asleep?--Bottoms up--to Yevgeny's--success! May itfulfil his highest hopes--and--ours!"

"Thank you, your wish is answered, " came a voice from the doorway. 

Irina gave a hoarse scream, and her glass, with its untouched contents, dropped upon the table. Every man had started from his seat; but onlyIvan went forward, hands out-stretched, to greet the young fellow whonow came into the circle of light. He was carefully dressed, his bluecoat buttoned tightly below a well-laundered shirt, a crush hat held inhis hand, one lock of jet-black hair fallen over a forehead no morebloodless than his lips, while out of his ghastly face gleamed a pair ofgray-green eyes that shone with a fixed brilliancy. One look at him, andIvan was exclaiming, anxiously:

"Yevgeny Alexandrovitch, --you're ill! My God, man, you should be inbed!--come, sit down!"

But Burevsky laughed--hoarsely. "No, no. You will give me the bestmedicine: a meal--company--a glass of wine. I've--I've beenworking!--Sergius told you--?"

He broke off, waving a listless hand towards his friend. Ivan, touchedwith pity, asked no more questions but led him to the table and seatedhim; nor heeded, as he sent a servant for _vodka_, Burevsky's quickglance round the board, and his low-voiced "All well. "

A moment later, and the room was echoing to the rattle of knives andforks and a conversation which, though lighter than before, was stillfitful and rather feverish in its rapid change of topic. It was the talkof men keyed to an unbearable state of anticipation. Sergius presentlycalled Irina to sing Marie's song of the stirrup-cup from "The Boyar";and fourteen hands applauded wildly as she smilingly climbed upon herchair, and, holding the replenished glass in her right hand, began oneof the most successful solos in Ivan's opera. 

She sang unaccompanied; but accompaniment was not missed. Save for hervoice, the room was absolutely still. Even Yevgeny, who had finished his_zakouski_ and liqueur, pushed his broth away to listen undisturbed; andthe footmen, with a change of plates, stole about the room on tiptoe. Irina's voice, nearing the climax of the solo, soared higher and fuller;while Ivan, with sparkling eyes, awaited the moment when he should leadthe others into the rousing chorus that terminated the song. At thatmoment there came a sudden trampling of heavy feet on the stairswithout, followed by a loud knock at the door, which, speedily thrownopen by Sósha, disclosed an officer and three gendarmes who, followingthe sound of the singing, presently halted on the dining-room threshold, evidently surprised at the scene before them. 

Irina's voice broke off on an upper note, but she remained on her chair, petrified by some powerful emotion that singularly resembled terror. Herbrother and his friends were, less conspicuously, in the same state. ButIvan proved himself admirable. Rising, quietly, he went forward, andasked, in a voice of mingled surprise and dignity:

"Who are you, may I ask? and what can your errand be with me or with myguests?"

The sergeant, after another long look around the room, consulted a paperin his hand and asked, slowly:

"You are Monsieur Ivan Gregoriev?"

"I am. "

"There are others here?"

"You see them. "

"These are all, then?"

"I have two hired waiters and my own old servant in the kitchen. "

"It's not them we want. --What are the names of these persons?"

"What right have you to ask? This house--"

"I am an officer in the service of the Czar. If you refuse to answer meI must take you forcibly before the court. --Give me the names of thesemen. "

Ivan turned a piteous face towards his friends, and, in an instant, Sergius said, quietly: "Certainly give our names, Ivan. There is noreason for withholding them. " Nor did either Ivan or the officerperceive that this young man was holding Irina, now lying back in herseat, from unconsciousness simply by the power of his eyes, or that hehad grasped Burevsky's hand under the cloth and was keeping him fromself-betrayal by the pure force of contact. 

Meantime the officer was writing the names, occupations, and domiciles, of every one present, at Ivan's dictation; and, as each was given, helooked it out from a list in his small, black note-book, and checked itoff. This over, he resumed his general questions:

"At what hour did these students arrive in your rooms?"

"I am not certain. --A few minutes--perhaps fifteen--before six. "

"_Before_ the hour?"

"Oh yes. We had to wait for Ivan Veliki to stop striking as I wascalling out an order to my servant. "

"Are you sure that they were all here then?"

Only now, for the first time, a thought that was like a dagger-thrustshot through Ivan. He wondered if the officer saw the color leave hisface. Nevertheless his hesitation had been imperceptible when he said, quietly: "They all came in together. "

The sergeant turned to his men and shook his head slightly. A fewmuttered words passed between them, the men seeming to agree with theirsuperior. Then the officer once more faced Ivan, who stood waiting:"Thank you, sir. You have saved your friends from suspicion. Nevertheless I was forced to ask, because the entire Quarter is beingsearched for the man who, at twelve minutes past six to-night, shot andinstantly killed Major Ternoff, assistant secretary of police, as he wasdriving, in his open droschky, through the Pretchishlensky Boulevard, from the public offices of justice towards his home. " And, with a stiffsalute, the sergeant, followed by his three men, turned and left theroom and the apartment. 

Mechanically Ivan closed the door upon them, and then stood staring fromthe white-faced Sergius to Irina, now supported by a neighbor, who waswetting her face with water from a goblet. 

Presently, as if his thoughts had broken unconsciously into words, Ivanmuttered, in a low, expressionless voice: "Anarchy!--Murder!--GoodGod--why didn't they make it my father?"

Then Burevsky rose slowly to his feet. "We all rejoice, Ivan, for andwith you, that it was not your father. --And you have savedme--from--from a serious difficulty. If you had told them that I--that Idid not come with the others--"

Ivan gave the spectre of a laugh. "Your chemistry should haveserved you, Yevgeny Alexandrovitch. Still--the lie--probablyprevented--annoyance--to you all. Ah, these Nihilists! What remarkablefellows they--"

"Ivan, we will go now. Irina is recovering, " interrupted Sergius, gravely. To Ivan's dull surprise, the young fellow's eyes met his fulland honestly. Involuntarily Ivan shuddered; but a little of theconvulsive bitterness in his heart faded away. Nevertheless, he took acurious advantage of the situation. Far from permitting the nowrestlessly eager students to leave his rooms, he kept them there, and, with them, the miserable Irina, till past midnight. Uncomfortable, shame-stricken, afraid, as they were, they continued to sit at the tableof the man they had used, and to eat his food and drink his wine. Onlyonce Sergius ventured to turn to him, saying; "You do not eat. --This_vol-au-vent_ is perfect. "

But Ivan, turning his grave, black eyes on those of the speaker, madeanswer:

"Pietr Ternoff was my mother's second cousin. He has dandled me on hisknee when I was a baby. Till I was too old for it, I drank my milk outof the gold mug he sent me at my birth. --And Pietr Ternoff has beenmurdered. --Am I to break bread--with you--to-night?"

CHAPTER XIV

THE THIRD SECTION

It was a quarter to one o'clock before Ivan finally shut the door uponhis guests--the hand of none of whom had he touched in farewell. Andthey, as they went out into the May night, knew that they had left theirfriendship behind forever; but only one of them would let a littleheavy-heartedness melt away in tears. Irina, hanging on her brother'sarm, wept, quietly, all the way back to the Alkheskaia. 

In spite of all their genuine regret, however, there was not one of themwho carried Ivan's bitterness to bed with him that night. They believedin the righteousness of their act. He saw it as it was: cowardly andcold-blooded murder. Here, then, was a little more faith lost; one moretradition gone; another shred of his remnant of faith in humanity tornfrom him and flung into the mud. During the whole of the following weekhe carried his load silently about with him. The papers were filled withthe story of the assassination, the details of the public funeral, thecondition of his widow, and the incomprehensible escape and continuedliberty of the assassin. It had been still light when the man--all wereagreed that it had been a man, --halted in the shadow of a doorway tillhis victim's vehicle was in the road opposite him. Then he had shot thefatal bullet, stepped calmly out of the doorway, and, mingling with thequickly gathering crowd, passed at once from the sight of the one or twowho _believed_ they had seen him shoot. And now he had disappeared intothe wilderness of the city. Though a reward of three thousand roubleswas offered for his capture, none had, as yet, brought so much as aclew. 

Ivan spent the week absorbing these reiterated facts, and trying, vaguely, to resolve them into some sort of order: to come to some sortof decision regarding his own course of action. Certain he was that heknew where to lay hands upon Ternoff's assassin. Certain also was hethat, if he gave Burevsky up to justice--his father's "justice, " theresponsibility of Burevsky's execution or exile would be on hisconscience forevermore. 

What to do?

Burevsky and his companions had used him ruthlessly, as theirshield. --Ivan had no idea of how slight had been the advantage they tookin comparison with predecessors of his. --Why should he hesitate to visitthem with _his_ ideas of right?--But, though he came forever to thispoint he always left it again, unanswered, and went reluctantly back tothe beginning of his syllogism. The men had been his friends. He hadliked them more than he had known. He had broken their bread. Could hedeliver them up to their fearful retribution?--God help him, he couldnot: criminals, menacing society, though they were. 

It took Ivan an entire week to come to the simple and obvious decisionof a middle course, so harassed and over-excited had his brain become. But when, on the morning of May 17th, it suddenly occurred to him to goto Sergius and make a clean breast of his doubt and his self-reproach, he could hardly constrain himself to wait till his classes were over anda mouthful of luncheon swallowed before he betook himself, in a swiftdroschky along the bank of the river, till he came to the bridge acrosswhich lay the Student Quarter. Thence he proceeded, on foot, through themaze of ugly little streets, wherein the spring sunshine only showed upall the more pitilessly their meanness, and filth, and ugliness. Once atthe house in which the brother and sister lodged, he went up the ricketystairs unheeding any of the customary sights and sounds, till, arrivingat Sergius' door, he started a little to find it wide open. Five minuteslater he returned to that door in a state of yet greater bewilderment;for both rooms were empty of occupants. 

Sergius and Irina were gone; but, as their belongings were scatteredabout in the usual untidiness, Ivan argued return. Throwing off his hat, then, he filled and lighted a pipe, seated himself at the batteredpiano--sole remaining relic of old Petrov Lihnoff, and now toodilapidated for sale--and yielded himself for an hour to that mostdangerous luxury of the serious composer: improvisation. 

Interested in the little theme he had developed, Ivan lost count oftime, and nearly two hours passed before he was interrupted. There was asound of feet running rapidly up-stairs, and then there burst into theroom Burevsky: bare-headed, leaden-hued, eyes aflame, his left handhanging, crushed and bloody, at his side, in his right a pistol, itsbarrel glinting in the light. 

Ivan was on his feet, facing the other, who stared at him as he gasped, between his quick breaths:

"_You_, Gregoriev!--_You!_--Go, instantly!--_Leave_ the house at theback;--there may be time!--You--"

"But for God's sake, Burevsky, what's the matter?--Where are Sergius andIrina?"

"Irina got away, thank God!--We managed that, last night. --See here, Ivan, she's at--"

The next word was drowned in the sharp report of a pistol-shot, whichwas instantly followed by another. Afterwards came a wild rush on thestairs, a low, hoarse cry, the screams of some women in the lower rooms, and then the room was invaded by Tronsky and Stassov, who were followedby Sergius and Féodor Lemsky dragging between them Lemsky's brother, Boris. Him they laid at once upon a sofa, dripping as he was with theblood which still gushed from a wound under his heart. He was murmuring, incoherently. Perhaps he was conscious of receiving his brother's kiss. But it was his last mortal impression. Immediately afterwards his jawfell, his eyes stared wide. One of them, at least, would not seeSiberia. 

And now, without a word, the five--Lemsky, stunned and silent, withthem, began hurriedly to pile furniture before the closed and bolteddoor. Ivan, still standing motionless by the window, transfixed withhorror, watched, as piano, table, chairs, finally a bed, were built intoa barricade. Already, however, their movements were accompanied by thesound of voices and the trampling of feet in the hall outside. Ivanrealized that the combat was about to recommence; and he was movingvaguely towards the group of students when Sergius seized him by theshoulder and drew him across to the door of the other room. As they wenthe sketched, in three or four vivid sentences the events following theshooting of Ternoff: the finding of the pistol-dealer, who had put thepolice upon the assassin's track; Burevsky's fugitive week; Irina'sescape; the sudden discovery of the arrangements for Burevsky'sdeparture an hour ago; then the return flight from the station to theirown quarter, ending in this final stand. Now they were in the back room, and Ivan listened, dully, while Sergius explained that he might escapeeven yet, by means of the rear window and a rope, which he drew frombehind the porcelain stove and put into Ivan's hands. Then came one wordof regret and farewell. The door was slammed upon him and he heard thebolt upon the other side shot home. 

Instantly Ivan, roused too late, sprang after his friend and beganbeating furiously upon the door, calling to be admitted. In vain. Hiswords were completely drowned in the furious clamor now rising from thehall beyond. Shot after shot rang out, punctuating sharply the fierce, steady pounding at the barricade, and the low, dull, but intenselypenetrating murmur of the crowd gathering about the house in street andalley. Once again, listening, calculating possibilities, Ivan stoodmotionless, horror in his eyes, chaos in his brain. How long the fightbeyond him endured he had no idea. Very suddenly, however, the clamorceased, and, out of the silence, rose the tones of a deep, officialvoice, repeating the formal sentences of accusation and arrest. Thesewere given but three times; and the names were those of Lihnoff, Stassov, and Féodor Lemsky. In his heart Ivan realized at once thereason for this; but the pangs of grief in him came as no surprise. Whathe now did seemed natural to him. To the prisoners in the outer room itwas wanton madness. They, and the policemen who were still working uponthe ruins of the barricade, heard the sound of sharp rapping on theinner door. An officer, uttering an exclamation, ran to it andunfastened the bolt. The next instant Ivan walked quietly into thewrecked room, and gazed about him at the ruin, where, in the midst ofsplinters and scraps of wood, empty cartridges, and greasyblood-streaks, lay three bodies: Lemsky, the first sacrifice; Burevskythe assassin; and Vladimir Tronsky, a gentle, beardless boy. Emptywindow-frames, splintered glass, and the ends of two ladders on thesills, showed how an entrance had finally been effected; for oldPetrov's piano, now a mass of splintered wood and twisted wire, hadserved its owner to the last. 

There was some manifestation of surprise at Ivan's appearance; but hewas at once seized, handcuffed, and provided likewise with ankle-chains, which permitted of a step of about eight inches. Then he was rangedbeside the other three, who noticed him in no way. And, though he knewthat the lack of recognition was for his own safety, it hurt, unaccountably. The anger, the repulsion for these youths, was gone fromhim now; and at heart he sided fanatically with them against theircaptors. But it had not as yet occurred to him that his own plight wasfar from pleasant. 

There was an interminable, official wait. Little by little the crowdoutside was broken up by police, who feared a possible attempt toliberate the prisoners when they should emerge. The golden light of theMay afternoon was fading softly into the silvery white night of thenorth. A chill had crept into the air. Inward discomfort began to remindIvan that a day had passed since he had eaten substantially; for at noonhe had been too full of the prospective interview to linger overluncheon. But there was small hope of speedy refreshment now; and thehunger of prisoners is traditional. 

By degrees, however, he drifted into one of his customary reveries, which was hardly broken by the termination of their wait. Under a guardof flattering size, the "politicals" were escorted down the silent, empty stairs and into the street, where two ordinary carriages awaitedthem. On emerging from the smoke-filled, blood-spattered house into theclean, cold evening air, Sergius looked keenly about him for some signof deliverance or of sympathy. None came. The street was like that of anabandoned city. On penalty of fine, every inhabitant was within doors. One moment, and the world was shut away from the prisoners, perhaps forthe rest of their lives. The four of them were divided and placed two ina carriage, facing two guards who sat with loaded pistols on theirknees: on the box an armed driver and a sergeant of police. The windowswere closely curtained, and, during the long drive, not one glimpse wasto be caught of street or building. Nevertheless, Ivan knew that theyhad not crossed the river. That meant that they were not at once to goto the "politicals'" prison nor to the formal offices of the police. Butone house in this part of the town seemed likely to be theirdestination. That was the gubernatorial palace: surely an unusualdestination, Ivan thought, even considering the crime for which theywere to suffer. 

It was as they were finally alighting from the vehicle that Ivan'scompanion, Stassov, managed at last to speak, in a whisper so rapid andso low that Ivan barely caught it:

"We get our trial now. This examination will be all we'll have. --Becareful. "

Then, for the first time, Ivan's heart sank, terribly. Another instant, and it was in his throat. Their destination had not been the palace ofthe Governor; but that of the chief of the Moscow Third Section. Ivanwas entering his boyhood home!

 * * * * *

An hour had passed. Ivan, Sergius, and four guards were sitting silentlyin the antechamber to Prince Michael's inner room. They alone were left;for, Stassov first, then Lemsky, had been led away into that dreadedchamber, and had not returned. Of what passed at their examinations, Ivan could only guess. But his imagination being now on fire, he feltthat the crossing of that threshold would be little less awful than thatof a doomed heretic into the torture-chamber of the Spanish Inquisition. Of the memories, realizations, and foreboding of those sixty minutes, itis difficult to speak, clearly. From the stunned calm of the firstmoment of shock, Ivan had drifted gradually into a fever of acutestfeeling. To him, now, his situation assumed monstrous and distortedproportions; for he expected no jot or tittle of favor from the fatherwho had cast him so completely out of his life. Moreover, back of allthe melodrama of the present, lay a black shadow of haunting memory:memory of the house in which he sat; of his impressionable, childishdays within it; of Nathalie; of Ludmillo; finally, above all, her imageenveloped in a shining aura of passionate appreciation, his mother: ofthe sorrow of her tender life; and the poignant bitterness of her death. It was to this tapestry of the past that he added now his vivid mentalpictures of present events; the revelations concerning the character ofhis new friends; of Irina, her treachery and her remorse; and finally, incongruity that made the fantasy perfect, over all, through all, therewound, caressingly, the notes of the little melody that had thatafternoon flowed from his fingers on to Sergius' battered piano:--themelody which now forms the principal theme of the weirdest of his tonepoems; the "Saturnalia of the Red Death, " taken from Poe's wild tale. 

At length, while he sat drearily working his numbed fingers, Piotrentered for the third time and summoned Sergius, away into the innerroom. Before he went, Irina's brother turned his face to his companionand looked at him; and in that look Ivan read all that the student hadtried to express in it: his remorse, his anguish, his sorrow for thetreachery that had ruined his friend. It was strange how, by that look, the hearts of both were lightened. 

Ivan waited long alone, under the curious eyes of the guard who saw inhim a type very different from that of the usual "political. " Even thesemen, uneducated as they were, believed, in their hearts, that there wasa mistake somewhere about this fellow. And yet, as for his chances ofrelease with the great Chief within there--bah! They were not worth theprice of a rusty nail. 

In the end it was with an air dogged, half-sullen, half-resentful, thatIvan, concealing his face by keeping his head bent down, followed hisfather's old servitor along the short passage to the closed door ofPrince Michael's cabinet. Immediately there came a word of command fromwithin. The door was opened, and Ivan was pushed into the room. 

It contained only one man, seated at a great work-table covered withorderly piles of documents. At first sight, the years seemed to havepassed over Michael's head leaving him untouched; but, as Ivan steppedinto the light of a low-hanging lamp, his father gave a sudden start, ahoarse gasp, and then fell back into his chair again--an old man. Ivan, though he had been gripping himself for the ordeal, felt himself turnslowly white, closed his eyes for an instant, and reopened them to meetthe diamond-bright glare of his father's look. At that, moved by acombination of emotional strain, physical exhaustion, and nervoustension, he suddenly began to laugh. It was his father who brought himback to himself again: his father, who sat slowly rubbing one handacross his brows, and muttering, as one in a daze:

"_Toi!--Toi, Ivan!--Dieu! Dieu!_"

Words, tone, appearance, moved the son intensely; for never before hadman beheld Michael Gregoriev show such stress of emotion. Never had anyhour so clearly revealed the ravages of mad living and secretunhappiness. 

True, the fierce eyes could flash as of old; the voice would presentlyonce more ring harsh and servant and equal alike would cringe beforehim; for still he held half Moscow in the iron grip of his terribleomniscience. But Ivan noted the color of his hair--that dead white thatis not the snow of years but the ashen colorlessness borne of continuousnervous strain. And there was the unexpected stoop of the powerfulshoulders, the occasional unavoidable trembling of the hands, and inhis face, which repeated the livid tone of the hair, were graven lines, many and deep, born of the repressed disappointment and increasingloneliness that had insensibly humanized the harsh visage. To the eyesof the son, looking on his father for the first time in years, there layon face and figure, everywhere, the marks of that dread instrument whichno member of the Third Section can put away or destroy: the evidences ofrelentless _experience_. 

Eye to eye they faced each other, father and son. One minutepassed. --Two. --Three. Never before had Ivan felt himself a thing ofevil. But under those terrible eyes, that had searched hearts as otherssearched printed texts for interlinear meanings, he began to feelhimself drawn into the wild waters between a Scylla of shame and aCharybdis of terror. Alas! Would this man believe his wretched tale ofthe trickery of others; of wanton, stubborn stupidity on the part ofhimself?

The first, hot wave of mortification had not passed when Prince Michaelsuddenly straightened, and lifted his head. His two hands were fastclinched; but their trembling was still plainly visible. He seemed, foran instant, about to break into one of his old torrents of abuse; butsuddenly, with an effort, he restrained himself, paused, and then said, slowly:

"I have been misinformed. I did not know you had entered theuniversity. "

"I have not. I am the second Professor of harmony and orchestration inthe new Conservatoire of Music. "

"Then, by God, what are you--" The words were shot out by a furiousimpulse, and as suddenly ceased. Again a pause, and Michael began, quietly: "What have you been arrested for, then? How did you get intothat nest of murderers: the brains and the soul of anarchy in centralRussia:--especially the creature Petrovitch, or Lihnoff?"

Ivan gave a weary sigh. "Because I have been an unspeakable fool:because I was tired; and had been working long, and hard. I chose somenew companions;--and now I find I entertained assassins unawares. "

At this, the reflected gleam of a smile flickered across Michael's face. His hands relaxed. "Tell me the story--all of it, " he said. Nor wouldthe prisoners waiting for their comrade, nor yet the guards thatattended them, have believed their ears could they have heard the toneof the tyrant's voice. 

Without preface, and without apology, Ivan began his story, which hetold baldly, with harsh stress upon his own deliberate folly. Only oneomission did he make: and that was one demanded of him by the past. Irina's name never appeared in the narrative; and, as he went on, thehope that she might be successfully shielded throughout, grew largewithin him. Again, however, he underrated the man to whom he spoke. Hehad finished, and silence had reigned for perhaps ten seconds, whenGregoriev said, a little impatiently:

"But the woman!--Lihnoff's sister, Irina, who has managed to get awayfrom my fools for the moment? Where is she, Ivan? You owe her one turnfor dragging you into your disgrace six years ago. Give me theinformation, and--you shall go. "

Ivan's lip curled. "Spy's wages!--I am no informer, " he jerked out, hisheart sinking within him, nevertheless. 

Gregoriev leaped to his feet in fury. Almost as quickly he was back inhis chair again. This conflict to retain his temper was so new to himand his repeated outbreaks were so characteristic, that one might havelaughed had the situation been different. However, when he spoke again, Michael's voice was quiet enough, though touched with irony:

"So--actually--you are in love with her still!"

"Neither now nor ever, " Ivan answered, steady-eyed. 

Michael, inwardly relieved, shrugged. "Where is she, Ivan?"

"Thank God, I don't know!"

"_Why_ don't you know?"

"Burevsky was shot with the name of the place on his lips--unspoken. "

Michael's brows were drawn and frowning. "You swear ignorance?" hedemanded. 

"So help me God. "

"Humph!--Well, well, --it merely delays the affair a day or two. She'sknown in every town in the Moscow district, and in every big city fromOdessa to Petersburg by this time. --Frontiers all waiting for her. "

"Father!"

At the sudden title, Michael trembled. "What is it?"

"Father, it is that I want Irina's pardon. --Listen! Sergius Lihnoff hasbeen her undoing. Freed from his fanaticism, his fascination, she willbe as dangerous as a baby. --She always hated the treachery. --Before thatsupper she even begged me to give it up, or to postpone it to Sunday--aday when Ternoff wouldn't leave the offices at his hour. --I am willingto give myself as guarantee for her. If ever again she involves herselfin a plot, I will come here and surrender. "

He was interrupted by his father's harsh laugh. "Useful act!" he said. 

Ivan flushed, but nevertheless repeated, steadily:

"Give her her pardon!--I've not asked much of you in my life. Do thisthing for me. --I won't want another. "

Gregoriev frowned, but seemed to ponder the question. Finally, leaningacross the table, he growled: "Don't you know that never, in my life asa Russian official, have I done such a thing as you ask? In all theyears of my service, a criminal hunted has been a criminal sentenced. "

"And now I ask you to prove your rule by this one exception. --I swearto you that the only person Irina is dangerous to, is--herself. "

There ended Ivan's fight for the girl. The rest of the struggle, and itwas a fierce one, passed silently within his father's breast. Tenunbearable minutes, and then, Michael raised his hand. 

 * * * * *

That conference with the last of the four prisoners, ended in one of theprofoundest sensations ever experienced by Prince Michael's entourage. For the young man, a Nihilist "political" of the type the Chief hatedwith a hatred undying, emerged from the cabinet alone, unguarded, bearing a pass of complete freedom, signed, "Michael. " Two of the men, examining it, rushed back to the inner cabinet to discover if theirChief had been foully murdered, as he had so often been warned wouldhappen when he persisted in interviewing, unattended, desperadoes of thelowest class. But to-night the Prince was not only alive, but also, Ossaupon Pelion, in a good humor!

The guards in-doors had by no means finished gaping over this fact, whenone of the soldiers who, on examination nights, stood at the outer gate, came hurrying in with a fresh item. The freed "political, " so evidentlyunder the special protection of all the saints, had paused as he reachedthe bottom of the entrance stairs of the palace, and burst into a fit ofuncontrollable, hysterical laughter. 

CHAPTER XV

ENGULFMENT

It was this laugh, or, rather, the chaos of emotions which produced itas their synthetic culmination, that Ivan carried away from his father'shouse. So peculiar had been its tone, that even the soldiers at the gatewho heard it were enabled to surmise something of its meaning. But onlyIvan himself was fully conscious of how perfectly it epitomized thefinal disillusionment that had swept away from him the last of hisyouth. By that laugh, also, was engendered the mood that now rode himfor many months, and was only thrown at last by means of a desperatestrategy. Nor is that devil-haunted period to be reviewed in a singlephrase. 

Anger, disappointment, bitter regret, had driven him back to amechanical performance of neglected duties. Thus, presently, hisdiscarded comrades drew once more about him. Perhaps all save NicholasRubinstein returned at first out of a malicious curiosity; for Moscowstill buzzed about the death of Ternoff; and Ivan's name had got itselfmysteriously coupled with the affair. After their first visit to himfive of his old friends, Laroche, Balakirev, Ostrovsky, Kashkine, and, inevitably, Nicholas, met together by common impulse to discuss theirbrilliant contemporary and the question of their relations with him. Thefive of them secretly admired, openly liked him, still. Two of themloved him, one confessedly. Of the remaining three, one was to becomethe closest companion of his famous years. Naturally, then, thedecision arrived at was, that Gregoriev's nature was not to be forced. Theirs would be the loss should they repudiate him now. When he desiredthem, he would find them within call:--this last delicacy being thesuggestion of Rubinstein. 

Meantime, Ivan's nature, even in unhappiness, called aloud for solitude. He must struggle alone through his deep waters: waters of the soul, wherein float neither life-preserver nor raft, rope or even light;neither coral reef nor oozy grave, for such as he. Darkness and strugglealike lasted till the end of his strength; but, with exhaustion and thecoming of dawn, came at last one mighty breaker, by which Ivan wasthrown high upon the strand of a new country. 

During the summer of this spiritual woe, Ivan was at Vevey: hadproceeded thither as usual at the beginning of his vacation. He carriedin his pocket a plentiful sum of royalties; and in his brain a hundredfloating ideas. Moreover, the pretty town held two good friends of his:Kashkine and Balakirev, each one hard at his own work; but delighted atthe opportunity of drawing Ivan a little out of his melancholy. In time, indeed, they came to think it banished, and the young man at peace. Hewas merely gathering strength to renew his battle: that intangible fightagainst circumstance and his own nature that has been waged by everyfine and sensitive soul since the world began, and Abel bethought him ofhis lamb-offering. Meantime, Ivan's secret but ardent desire to workagain worthily was fulfilled on a day that was to become one of thevividest of his memories. 

It was a morning of mid-July, sweet-aired, hot-sunned, the waters of thelake just feathered with a breath that turned the pulsating satin to awhite-sheened, crinkly azure velvet. About eight of the morning thethree men, each brain teeming with its own ambitions and its peculiarappreciation of the mysterious Mother, started off for one of theirhabitual rambles. Ivan was in a mood whimsically frank, but changeful;and he blew the conversation this way and that out of sheer wantonness, till presently it touched a point on which Balakirev suddenly laid adetaining hand. Gregoriev had been analyzing the character ofOphelia--the delicate, fantastic disorder of her pathetic mentality; andsomething, some specially delicate comprehension of this particularconception of the greatest poet, caused the burly Russian to say, softly:

"She is abstract enough--elusive, rainbow-hued enough, for yourharmonies, Ivan Mikhailovitch. Behold a tone-poem ready to your hand!"

Ivan halted, quickly lifting his head, as an animal who scentssomething: "You think so?--An entire tone-poem?" The tone was alive withattentiveness. 

"Why not?"

"Ah--a little too fragile--too--wanting in discord. " A moment's pause. Then he broke out in another voice: "But you, Balakirev, --it is youridea: your theme. You felt it, therefore it belongs to you. Subjectsborrowed--mechanically worked up--bah! It is the worst prostitution ofart. " And Ivan tried hard for conviction. Indeed it was quite true thathe had no faith in other men's ideas for his own use. Yet within sixtyseconds of contemplation, _this_ theme had suddenly taken possession ofhim in a manner joyously well-known. Already the necessary contrast, theshadow-background of Ophelia's silver brightness--the melancholy of herPrince-repudiator, was tingling through him. Could he really relinquishit to the other?

No necessity for this, fortunately. Balakirev, bigger, perhaps, ingenerosity than any other musician of any time, known purveyor of ideasfor men even smaller than he in accomplishment, forced Gregoriev's eyesto meet his. All was said in that look, though presently, with a slowsmile, these words were added:

"I call you to witness, Kashkine, that our Ivan herewith weds the LadyOphelia for the space of one month; the condition being that we listento the manuscript on the night of its completion. --Nay, you shall notrefuse me, Gregoriev. I tell you no subjects but those connected withRussia can fire me. You are bigger--universal. Take this tragedy, then, and write it again for us in music. "

It was thus that the young man gained the most congenial of the subjectsthat were to fill his summer months. The second, something bigger, though hardly more complex, was another opera--already bespoken byseveral _impresarii_, and founded on a translation of Keats's"Isabella. " Into this subject he grew, slowly, but strongly and withfull interest, till by August the tone-poem was nearly done, and theopera well under way: he having worked his six hours a day assiduously. And these hours of occupation gave him courage to bear the othereighteen, in which he was constantly forced to face--himself. 

Ivan had, indeed, been badly bitten by the snake of the world. Thepoison, entering his system long since, had spread, slowly, till hispresent weariness brought him wholly under its malign spell. Disillusion, disappointment, distrust--they worked in him till he was ina fever of pessimism, denying the good of the world. The newest maggotin his brain was a bitter over-appreciation of the fact that, while, after long years of scoffing and revilement, his work had finally cometo some little success, that success was only popular, hardly in any wayprofessional. This fact every critic in great Russia had taken pains toimpress upon the public and upon him; so that, while solvency was nowhis, the butterfly of lasting power seemed farther away than ever. Ay, truly, the bad blood that ran in his veins was his only inheritance!Family had he none. This appalling solitude must, plainly, be henceforthhis portion: neither man nor woman should he trust again. 

So ran the black reveries; for he was in the throes of his second severeattack of "Tosca"--the _Herzeleide_ of the Russians: that nationalmelancholy, borne of barren steppe and dreary waste, to which everygiant intellect that race has known, has sooner or later become a prey, from the great Peter down to the littlest Romanoff; and from which morethan the first Alexander have actually died. 

Ivan knew it young enough, and long. Moreover, it had now come upon himat a critical time, just as he was emerging into broadened manhood. Hissalvation probably lay in the fact that for his work, only, could hethrow off the black mantle; for much of the time he was wont to labor atthe white heat of what is called inspiration. His meditations, hisanalyses, were those of a mature mind, replete with human knowledge ofevil and good. But because his belief in the power of evil had becometainted with morbidness, and because he governed the kingdom of his ownsoul with a rigid purity, the friction of the two forces produced in himan abiding melancholy: a melancholy abstract, almost impersonal, thoroughly Russian, and yet, because he was a type of the universal, all-comprehensive. By unhappy degrees his whole life, his every act, became leavened and tinctured with this melancholy, till it had risen tothe height of his soul's acropolis, and invaded and overflowed--hiswork. Thus did it come about that the labors of the lonely soul giveninto the keeping of a yearning, lonely woman one New Year's night oflong ago, came at last to reproduce for the world, in sound, the burdenof the world. For who will deny that Gregoriev's music cries out withthe dread cry of humanity in pain? It has come to be known as the_Herzeleide_ of the Creation: the sorrow of the great, throbbingworld-soul. And technique and conception had worked well together; forin this year both came to their fulness in him who used bothwonderfully, artistically, yet always with the restraint that can comeonly through absolute self-mastery. It is the great reward of him whohas made complete sacrifice of all things else: the act without whichgenius comes not into its own. 

In the last week of August, the three artists left Vevey together:Kashkine on his way to Germany, for a concert tour; Balakirev to Kiev, the holy city of the Slavs, for inspiration; Ivan back to Moscow and theConservatoire. 

Throughout the ensuing winter he taught all morning six days in theweek, reserving his composing for the hours of early morning andevening. After his midday meal, he came into the habit of taking longtramps through the streets of the poorer quarters, resting himself inlittle _traktirs_, finding unhealthy companionship in the patentdiscontent, poverty, and misery of the laboring class. By five o'clockhe was in his own rooms again, and from then till ten he worked at pianoand desk, a samovar bubbling at his elbow. Promptly at the hour, the newmanuscript pages, beautifully finished, were locked away; and the pianoclosed. Then, in the shadowy corners of his bedroom, devils began tostir, and creep about, uneasily, waiting for their victim's nightlyattendance at his own torture, where he was set upon in some one oftheir hundred ways. Fevered brain, weary body, tumbled bed; loneliness, regret, heart-hunger, unsated ambition; most of all a longing for lovingarms to close about him, words of comfort and courage to come throughthe darkness that thrilled only to his own stifled sighs--thus thenight, with its long dance of horned, fire-eyed beings, who held captiveall his angels of mental health, faith, hope, joyous life. And so atlast the presage of morning, when, for an hour or two, sleep would freehim from the bondage of his inner life--that ugly prison, whose blackwalls were unbeautified by time, unsoftened by the clinging vines ofmemory; whose stones were but made darker by the shadow of the bannerfloating over all: the black flag of that "Tosca" that has unfurleditself above so many of the world's great. 

Autumn bursts of rain had whitened into snow. Moscow was now a city ofdazzling purity topped by steep roofs and domes of gold and azure andwater-green, so filling the air with brightness that one minded less thepersistent leaden gray of the vault overhead. But cold and grayness arebad companions for the morbid-melancholic; and Ivan took his tone fromthe clouds, steadily repulsing the gentle efforts of his friends to drawhim from his dim retreat into sunny mental climes. 

The holidays went by, and Ivan began to realize that a few more weekswould bring about a necessary farewell to two more of hisbrain-children. It was the 2d of February before the Ophelia tone-poemlay before him finished, polished to the last point of perfection. Another week and "Isabella"--Kashkine's translation, his ownscore--would receive its last stroke of the pen. Ivan waited till thatmoment came, then laid his two beloved companions side by side in theircabinet, turned the key, and left them there, while he fared forth intothe frozen night, his brain at last as empty as his heart. 

There remained, however, the fierce desire to place his children well. The Ophelia he carried to Balakirev and Nicholas Rubinstein, who satover it one whole night examining, discussing, rejoicing at itssplendor, its delicacy, the perfection of the reconceived masterpiece. Next morning Nicholas sent its composer word that he would play it atthe fifth concert of his regular series, on the afternoon of March 4th. And Ivan was satisfied; for these concerts were the musical events ofMoscow; and the new work was assured of a performance as perfect as hecould desire: an audience as distinguished as it was ably critical. 

This arranged, and one rehearsal--at which technical difficulties loomedlarge before both men and conductor--impatiently endured, all Ivan'smind was given up to considerations for the placing of his opera. Merelli, he knew well, was thirsting for it: would make it his featureof the next year's season. Should he insist, it would even be rushedthrough during the spring. But he was not in haste. Moreover, follythough it was, he had already, some time ago, begun to desire a pettytriumph: a piece of retribution for the man who had more than oncebrought him dire suffering. He wanted unstinted praise for a new workfrom his old master, the implacable Zaremba. Since the success of "TheBoyar" he could certainly not be put off with a hasty reading and adamning criticism of the new score. His peculiar style, many a time tornand ridiculed by Zaremba and the great _virtuoso_, had now beenapplauded by the entire Russian musical world: was beginning to berecognized beyond the frontier. Certainly it was no longer within rangeof one man's malice. So far, no ear but Ivan's had heard "Isabella"; noeye but his had beheld the pages of that score which, by theafter-judgment of five nations, remains unsurpassed in the history ofopera save by the music-dramas of one Richard of Bayreuth. Already, inhis heart, Ivan knew the value of his work. But his nature, ever proneto self-depreciation, never wholly believing in his own power tillanother had assured him of it, cried out for confirmation of his secrethope. With the stamp of Zaremba's approval, Petersburg, first city inthe land, would crowd to hear his work; and it would come to Moscow, tohis father, with a double reputation. --In fine, on the morning ofFebruary 15th, a letter and a registered parcel left Moscow for thenorth, addressed to the Director of the Petersburg Conservatoire:--whowas at present in a condition of nervous irritability that kept hisevery pupil in a state of petrified wretchedness throughout the workingday. 

Miserable Ivan! Zaremba too--even Zaremba, was in the throes ofcomposition! He was attempting a work as far beyond his creative powersas are the harmonies of Wagner beyond the quaint simplicities ofolden-time Scarlatti. Wretched Ivan! Relentless circumstance!--To thismonster of vanity, vain ambition, malicious jealousy, went themasterpiece of an offending _pupil_. 

However, happily, Ivan was not clairvoyant. The satisfactory close ofhis long period of labor brought with it a state of passive languor. Aquiet numbness replaced the acute sensitiveness of his nerves, and madehim for the nonce impervious to his devils, though it could not preventhis inner sense of loss. For the creator who has lived for many monthsin daily communion with the living creature of his imagination, cannot, if he work as artists must, but come into a state of great and secretlove for his dream-images. The feeling is sacred, indeed; for whatdweller in Philistia but would scoff at such a sentimentality as lovefor work, and unhappiness at its conclusion? Nevertheless it is truethat, when the hour of triumph, the finishing of a long, successfulcreation is accomplished, and eager Philistia waits clamoring to enjoyit, its master knows well that his hour is over: that his good-bye mustbe said. His child, stared at, listened to, conned by ten thousand eyes, ears, or tongues, is his no more; cannot return to him; for it is of theworld, and the dream between them is dissolved. 

This had come to Ivan. His two friends were gone from him to other men. His whole being cried out for rest; but his heart was empty. 

A week's desultory waiting, however, suddenly brought an episode thatturned his mind in another direction. Nicholas Rubinstein sent him atroubled missive, asking his presence at the next rehearsal of Ophelia. Anxiety stared from every line of the brief note; and, after somehesitation, and a very bad half-day, Ivan presented himself at the GrandTheatre; where he instantly found himself the centre of an uproar. Thenew tone-poem was impossible. Concertmeister, head of second violins, all the heads of the other bodies, swarmed to him, each pointing out thevarious passages deemed by them either unplayable or unmusical; and, finally, the whole number came to an agreement of scorn regarding onefantastical episode--an analysis of Hamlet's yearning to know the mindof his father, and a suggestion of his own indecision and unbalancedmentality. This, a passage of some thirty bars, was universally declaredto be contrary to every known law or license possible to composition. 

To this superior, scoffing company of weaklings Ivan, alwaysgentle-mannered, shrinking from argument or petty conflict as other menfrom a nagging woman's tongue, undertook, by rehearsing, to explain hisheart's work. Had it not been for Nicholas, he would soon have left thefield to his opponents. Upborne by the conductor, he did manage toendure two rehearsals. The evening after the second, however, found him, haggard and white-faced, in the old apartment, pleading with Rubinstein, in the presence of Laroche, to give the whole thing up, to strike hisname from the programme. 

Rubinstein stoutly refused; and, the more he was entreated, the morestubborn did he grow, till he had actually argued himself from aposition of doubt into a mulish insistence that if they played nothingelse that day, Ophelia should be properly rendered. Indeed by hisyielding, Ivan had unconsciously brought about the thing he had in hisown heart desperately desired. 

At a little past midnight he left his former home, somewhat comforted inheart and mind. However, he went to no more rehearsals; and speedilygave his associates to understand that he wished the subject avoided;though he failed to notice that his wishes were also Rubinstein's. Nicholas, however, was harassed to a point of fury with all the world. Never in his life had he encountered such insubordination among his men. He set out to quell it persistently but tactlessly, regardless alike ofthe temper of his prospective audience, and of the highest interests ofthe boy whom he had taught, protected, and now unselfishly admired. Hewas perhaps more wretched than Ivan. For that youth had temporarilythrust this subject away from him and was dreaming day and night of hisopera, and of the word that was to come from Zaremba; that word ofabsolute capitulation that should make the performance of Ophelia a mereepisode, barely worth considering. 

All too speedily for the unhappy conductor came the afternoon of hisfifth symphony concert. By two o'clock pit and stalls were black withpeople. By half-past, even the boxes were noticeably full; and at thathour Nicholas Rubinstein appeared, bowed to the tumult of applause, lifted his baton, and drew forth the opening notes of the second"Lenore" overture. Ivan, very still and pale, troubled and apprehensive, sat in one of the stalls near the front, between Balakirev and Laroche, with Kashkine just behind: both of his Vevey companions having journeyeda thousand miles to hear their joint tone-poem. Never afterwards, however, could Ivan remember a single incident of the early afternoon. The "Italian Symphony, " something of Glinka's, one of AntonRubinstein's short orchestral commonplaces, were played with the usualbrilliant finish. With the intermission came palpitation, a dry mouth, and a vague impression of Laroche's biting truths anent Anton'sstupidity as a composer, and his strange influence over hard-headedNicholas. Then there was one, last, terrible moment of dread, as theconductor remounted his daïs and paused. Obviously he was addressing hismen. More than that, he was pleading and admonishing; for yesterday'srehearsal had been a piece of wanton cruelty. But now the baton must goup, happen what might. And immediately the twenty-minute practical jokebegan. [1]

The orchestra played their tone-poem faultlessly as to notes. Likeso many machines, the instruments performed each its allottedpart. But, oh, Heavens!--the effect! Expression: fire, poetry, understanding--_piano_, _fortissimo_, _crescendo_, _rubato_--there wasabsolutely none. Never had thing so dead, so stiff, so hideous, sodiscordant, been heard in that opera-house. People stared, looked at oneanother, frowned for an instant, smiled; at length, tittered, openly. Inall that great building, but one little group sat silent. Ivan and thethree gathered close at his side, were like men dead. Long before it wasover, Nicholas had flung his baton to the floor and left the stage; butstill the orchestra went on--and on. In the silence following on thelast chord--a silence broken by no demonstration, either of applause orof hissing--Ivan the composer rose, pushed his way to an aisle, andhurried blindly out into the streets. Thus he knew nothing of theremarkable sequel of the affair: how Rubinstein, an instant after thecessation of the horror, had rushed back upon the stage, addressed adozen wild phrases of explanation to the house, and then, at the end ofa sudden clamor demanding Ivan, turned to his men, audibly fined everyone of them a month's pay, after which, once again rapping the desk withhis broken baton, he drove them, cowed and shamed, into a twenty minuteswith Ophelia that was destined to fix Ivan's orchestral fame foreverwith the Moscow public; for it was a quarter of an hour after the pieceended for the second time, before the people would accept Kashkine'sfrantic assurances that the young man was not in the house. 

Utterly oblivious of the turning of the tables, wrapped, as by a shroud, in that dire silence, Ivan was walking--walking--out into Moscow, through the frozen streets, under the leaden sky, the terrible anger andrebellion in him fading slowly to a numbing stillness--a stillness as ofdeath. Was it really by accident that, on his homeward way, he passedthe post-office to which his letters went? Without hesitation he hadgone into the building. When he came out again there was an expressionof fear in his eyes, and his heart was beating wildly. Nor were hissteps any longer aimless. Taking the nearest droschky, he directed itfirst to a chemist's shop, then to his own room, where Sósha opened tohis knock, and noted, as he passed, the envelope in his hand, acrosswhich sprawled Zaremba's old, familiar writing. But the pink packagewith its crimson danger-label lay hidden in a pocket. 

Ivan sat at his bedroom window for twenty minutes before he foundcourage to open his communication. For the first time, doubt of hisopera began to stir in his heart; and the memory of that other long-pastday of disappointment, when Nicholas had found him in this very room, and had tried to hearten him, came to him as a premonition of doom. Howwas he to be heartened now--after so many more years of failure?Nay--with a half-smile, Ivan laid his recent purchase on thewindow-ledge, and slowly drew the letter from its envelope:

 "ST. PETERSBURG, _Monday, March 10th_. 

 "MY DEAR PUPIL:--Despite the fact that your manuscript score arrived at a time most inopportune, I having recently renounced all but my most pressing lessons to plunge myself entirely into an atmosphere of profound creation, I have conscientiously performed the task you imposed upon me. That this task proved very little worth while, I write with double regret--my own time being of considerable value to our world;--though it should not greatly surprise you, since it is thoroughly evident that 'Isabella' is a hasty, ill-thought-out, unfinished composition. --You will remember my constant reproaches of your excessive carelessness, even when you were directly under my own eye. And you will not expect me to think you very serious in your work when, on the very first page of your overture, I discover two unpardonable blemishes--an empty fifth (the first error of harmony mentioned in all text-books), and one of those monstrosities called, I believe, _chords of the ninth diminished_--a license actually tolerated, I believe, by a certain preposterous German school. Need I have read further to learn that, as a composer, you can never achieve a _succès d'estime_, and that your classical ideals are gone?

 "To be brief, my dear Gregoriev, your 'opera'--I give it your own grandiloquent appellation, is unworthy the signature of a pupil of mine; and, after a careful reading, I feel that the greatest service I can do you is to keep the score pigeon-holed here till you are able to laugh at your wild idea of its possible performance. 

 "Accept, my dear pupil, the remembrances of, "E. ZAREMBA. "

Slowly at first, then with more rapidity, Ivan read the letter through. Even after he had noted the signature, he continued to hold the sheet inhis hands, while his eyes fixed themselves on some distant object. Two, three, five minutes passed. Then he placed the paper carefully on thetable, dropped into a chair by its side, and seemed to meditate. 

After a time, there came a clamor at the door of the living-room; andIvan recognized friendly voices. Instantly he glided to the door, turnedthe key, drew the bolt, and returned noiselessly to his place just asSósha knocked. After a pause, the knock was repeated. Then the door wastried, shaken, and pulled. In vain. There came no sound from within. Ivan heard his servitor inform the would-be condolers that his masterhad evidently gone out again. There were muffled good-byes andso--silence. 

Twenty minutes later Sósha, dozing in his tiny kitchen, was roused byhis master commanding tea at once, and enjoining him to let no one intothe rooms that night. At the acknowledgment of this command, Ivanreturned to his bedroom, to wait. Ten minutes passed. Then Sósha came, set down the samovar and a plate of food, prepared his bed, and hobbledoff to a quiet evening, a pipe, and the companionship of the old_concierge_ who came up to sit with him nightly. 

Meantime, Sósha's master had not yet moved, but sat at the table wherethe water in the copper pot now bubbled merrily, his eyes still fixed onsome far-off vision of night. There was about his appearance and hisoccasional slight movements that mechanical unconsciousness that is astrong signal of danger. For, when burdens grow unbearable, when one istaxed beyond that point at which nature sets her limit of endurance, there comes a condition of mental numbness in which men are apt fordeeds quite transcending their normal natures. And this was thecondition to which, by a long series of mistakes and accidents allsimilar in effect, Ivan had been reduced. Many years had passed sincethe time when, by the folly of a fortnight, he had been stripped ofyouth, gayety, wealth. Since then, balanced only by his little successof the previous winter, had come a countless string of disappointmentsand misfortunes, which, striking him always in one spot, had renderedhim exquisitely sensitive. Now, in one afternoon, he had lost the fruitsof eight months of sincere and careful labor. In his heart he knew thatit was at last too much; and he felt himself driven, with a wild rush, down towards the valley of the shadow. 

Tea had come; Sósha was gone; he was alone with the night. The samovarhissed and steamed, comfortably; and to its accompaniment the man filleda glass with the amber liquid, tore the wrapper from his chemist'spackage, and poured into one hand a dozen yellowish pills. In the otherhand he grasped the tea-glass. There was an instant's pause. He smiledand his lips moved. Then, suddenly, he lifted his hand to his face, gulped down the morphia pellets, following them with the steamingtea. --In that instant all his chains, loosened, rattled down about himto the floor. Brave man or coward, he felt a sudden mighty wave ofrelief over-sweep him. The set, strained look left his face. His eyessoftened. Once or twice he paced across the room. Then he went to hisarm-chair, threw himself into it, and leaned back with closed eyes. 

The period of waiting seemed long. He remembered so much that he oughtto have done: papers that should have been destroyed. --Still, it was toolate for that. --After all, this languor was very pleasant. He was gladhis eyes were closed. Back of them--behind sight--there appeared tobe a most charming country. --What was it he must see there? Outof the silver mist there was surely a form emerging?--a creatureslender, delicate, crowned with a weight of fragrant hair! Clothed inrose-red, she; and her lips were smiling, her arms out-stretched tohim:--Nathalie!--Naturally he went forth to meet her, to melt with herinto that radiant light. And there came a great roaring in his ears--thenoise of many waters rushing. Ay, they were closing now above his head. He was down. --And so--night. --Oblivion. 

 * * * * *

There passed an endless time. In the darkness the soul of Ivan, readypoised, waited for the summons. No summons came. Must it indeed returnwithin itself, unfreed? Yes, for the senses were stirring even now. Outof the void came a vague murmur of human voices--a sharp exclamation. Then blackness once more; this time complete. 

 * * * * *

Complete though it had seemed, when Ivan opened his eyes again upon thescanty furniture of his bedroom, it was with the sense of many days goneby. His head was iron-bound; his tongue dry and swollen; life a seriesof horrible retchings. After a time his dull eyes travelled slowly roundthe room. Kashkine was near, and Rubinstein, and two strange men. Onevery face was an expression of relief, of joy. Ivan marvelled at thereason. Then his eye encountered the table, and he thought he knew. Forthere, in a pile, lay the manuscript pages of his opera; to recoverwhich, indeed, Balakirev had, during the five-day battle with death, journeyed to Petersburg and told his tale to the frightened Zaremba. Butthis and certain other things--the fact that there were men in the worldwho loved him, and a place in the world that demanded him, Ivan was tolearn by faint degrees, and with some sardonic humiliation. 

[Footnote 1: The incident here recounted, like that of Ivan's failureto conduct his symphony, is not imaginary. It occurred in Moscow, inthe winter of 1865, with one of the early works of Peter IllichTchaikowsky. ]

CHAPTER XVI

JOSEPH

It was in the November of that same year--1870--that "Isabella" had itsinitial performance, in Moscow, under Merelli. The original intentionhad been to open the season with the new work. But, at the last moment, the leader, despite his memories of "The Boyar, " repudiated his promise, deeming the honor too great for a Russian, and chose instead to presenthis other novelty, Gounod's "Roméo et Juliette. " Ivan, resenting theact, promptly removed the score of "Isabella" to his own rooms; and itcost the _impresario_ six weeks of persuasion and apology, besides athousand roubles' damages, before he could come to terms again with theyoung composer, who, under Rubinstein's advice, was rapidly becomingworldly wise. 

In the end, the _première_ of the new opera was made under highlyauspicious circumstances; but, to the amazement of every oneconcerned, --it being a far finer work than its predecessor, --"Isabella"made only a moderate success. Ivan's style was still a matter of endlessdiscussion among the critics; and in the new opera he had let himselfout fully, repudiating all those Italian traditions which, at the timeof the composition of "The Boyar, " still largely governed him. Time hasproved his wisdom, however; for, while to-day "The Boyar" is seldomgiven, "Isabella" is a standard work in the _repertoire_ of everyopera-house of note in the white empire, besides having won laurelsboth popular and critical in Paris and at Covent Garden. 

Gregoriev bore this little disappointment far better than his friendshad feared. The long fit of depression, thoroughly broken by his attemptat suicide, had not yet returned. The summer had been spent on a walkingtour through Finland, with Lechetizsky and Sérov and he came home fullof animal vigor. On his way back he had had a fortnight in Petersburg, and there spent two evenings in the company of Nathalie and his aunt, who was now suffering from a secret but probably incurable malady. Theladies, while keeping him at rather formal distance, had none the lessshown genuine interest in him and his work; and he carried away one ortwo very precious memories of her who still remained the one woman inthe world for him. 

During the autumn he had done some excellent work; and confided toRubinstein his decision that opera was, after all, not his _métier_, butthat henceforth he should spend his time on orchestral forms, with theexception of an occasional group of songs, for which he had a specialgift. Finland, with its stretches of pine forest and gray waterways, hadmade a powerful appeal to his peculiar imagination; and the "Songs ofthe North" form the first of his many tone-pictures of that country. 

A week or two after his return to Moscow, he began to find himselfhaunted by the memory of his aunt's face, which brought up inexplicablyvivid pictures of his beloved mother in the last year of her life. Moreover, he had, in her presence, read upon the face of his belovedlines of a soul-tragedy that was to bear him glorious fruit. For it wasactually at this time, through these means, when he was barely pasttwenty-nine, that there was born in him the seed of that final effort ofhis genius, to be dreamed over for twenty years, and finished only asthe shadow of death lengthened over him: his first faint vision of themaster-work to be known to the music-loving world as the Tosca Symphony. 

Autumn, and the first fortnight of December, proved a busy, fruitful, pleasant period to the workman, who was now well out of the heyday ofhis twenties and glad to settle down to the steady harness-work of manin his prime. He was beginning to be satisfied with the simple fact thathe himself was sure of his own powers; and it was more than he askedwhen some incident showed how fully the outer world was beginning toacknowledge him as one not to be judged by ordinary standards. Surely hewho has come to this at thirty has small right of complaint!

It was not often now that Monsieur Gregoriev, the professor who appearedso worshipfully experienced to his pupils, allowed himself to reflectupon the episode of the previous spring, when he had swallowed what hebelieved to be a death-dose. Yet, in his inner consciousness, hoveredalways the knowledge that he possessed a sure and unfailing refuge fromthat terrible "Tosca" whence escape was certain only through extremestmeasures. --Nor did the exquisite vision of the young Nathalie--his lastliving remembrance of that black night--often leave him, sitting throughsolitary evenings with pipe and samovar, quite unchallenged. Indeedthere were already times when it seemed as if he need hardly wait forthe excuse of the "Tosca" to turn refuge into indulgence. 

Thus come we to the afternoon of the 18th of the holiday month: a grayday, and a windy; and bitter, bitter cold; when all dreams of Christmascheer were frozen in the forming and replaced by some breath of theshrivelling air. Ivan came in from his morning's work, partook of asolitary luncheon, and was standing at his window, puffing at his pipeand absently staring into the street, reluctant to turn to work. He hadbeen calculating, rather cynically, during his meal, on the meagrereturns paid by the world for any labor requiring the cream of thoughtand talent: work priceless, indeed, so far as roubles went, butcomparing badly in actual recompense with mere, mechanical labor. Thesubject still occupied him in its way, when his attention was drawn fromit to the behavior of the only person to be seen in thatlittle-frequented thoroughfare. This was a young man, clad in much-wornsheepskins of the cheapest variety. His hands were uncovered--actuallybare, in an atmosphere of thirty degrees below zero! Little wonder thatIvan's eye was caught by, and that it remained fixed on, that figure ofpoverty. The stranger's gait was slow, and perceptibly unsteady. Morethan once he halted, looking about him, vaguely, as if for someresting-place. And yet, under his left arm, he was carrying, unwrapped, a good-sized canvas. --Was he delivering it?--Or was he--Impossible! Nosuch person could be glorified by the title of artist! The questionspassed swiftly through Ivan's mind, and then were suddenly broken off. As the youth came into line with Ivan's window, he reeled slightly, caught himself, and then dropped upon the frozen walk, letting hisburden fall at his side, as his head sank into his arms. 

Bah!--Only _vodka_, then. Some drunken artisan, who faced discharge onthe morrow. Ivan turned from the window; but quickly returned to it. Vulgarly drunk the man might be. But even the fires of alcohol formscant protection against such cold as reigned to-day. The man might befrozen ere an officer perceived him. Moreover, as Ivan looked again, something in the recumbent figure suggested the abandon rather ofdespair than of debauchery. --An instant's hesitation. Then the watchercaught up his own fur coat and cap, ran from the rooms, and, a momentlater, was bending over the lonely figure and placing a friendly handupon his shoulder. 

There was a slight start. With an effort, the head lifted. Ivan wasgazing into a pair of clear, blue eyes, and realizing that there was notaint of _vodka_ in the other's breath. Nay! That face spoke of verydifferent things. Youth was there, and hardship, and suffering, anddiscouragement. More than that, the gaunt pallor of face and lips, thesharp outline of jaw and cheek-bone, told of want, great and immediate. They were signs that Ivan knew well. The fellow was in the final stagesof starvation. 

In an instant, Ivan had lifted the canvas from the frozen snow, and washelping the unhappy man to rise. When he spoke, his voice had thetenderness of a woman's:

"My friend, you have been unfortunate! I am a worker myself, and haveneeded help in my time. Come to my rooms with me. I am all alone; andyou must have rest and food. "

"Food!" There was a note of elemental savagery in the weakened voice. "Food!--My God! My God! Give me food!--My gloves only got me half a loafthe day before yesterday--or--three days ago it was, --I think. "

 * * * * *

"Are you strong enough, yet? Are you sure you can?--You see, you've beenthrough a fearful ordeal. "

Ivan spoke rather anxiously as, two hours later, he bent over the youngman, now lying on the divan in Ivan's living-room and looking evenwhiter and wearier than before he had eaten the meal just finished. 

But the stranger smiled; and at sight of that smile Ivan felt a thrillof surprise. The eyes and features lighted up till the gaunt signs ofwant were forgotten and the face looked like that of some cherubic boy. It was a revelation so pleasant that a faint suggestion ofweakness--resembling the cloying after-taste of a saccharinebeverage--went, for the moment, unnoticed. 

"I want to talk to you. You see, you're the only one that's doneanything for me. --You are an artist, too. I guessed it before you toldme. --But you can't have had the struggle I've had: everything against mefrom the beginning: unknown, and terribly, terribly poor: ambitious, butwith no _chance_ for success!--But you've saved me--and my canvas. Thatwas the last thing I had to sell; and without it there was no hope. "

"Paints and brushes and knives--what could you do without those? Werethey all gone?--You see, I've been pretty near where you are myself, inthe past. "

It was a surprise to see the sudden look of petulance that crossed theother's face. "Oh, my working-tools!--You see you can't understand. You, of course, only need ink and paper. But we painters must have plenty ofimplements to work with. --Why, I kept them and starved! Could I do anymore?"

Ivan shook his head, slightly puzzled. "You've had a very bad time ofit. If you feel able, tell me, " he said. 

The stranger elbowed himself a little higher, and took a mouthful ofwine and water from the chair beside him. Ivan settled close by, cigarette in hand, facing him; and, during the hour that followed, histhoughts never strayed. The tale he heard interested him deeply, stirredhis admiration, and, at the same time, vaguely troubled him. It wasevident enough that this boy had endured an experience from which onlyindomitable determination of some sort could have brought him out. Nevertheless, ever and again, came suggestions of egotism, selfishness, love of luxury, that were naïve in their unconsciousness. But so foreignwere these things to Ivan's own simplicity of nature, that he ended byrepudiating his first doubts of the boy before him who had borne somuch. 

"My name, " began the youth, "is Joseph Kashkarin. I was born in Poland, in the spring of 1848, just after we had moved from Lodz to theoutskirts of a little village near Chölm. All my life we have beenhorribly poor. But my grandfather--I am of family, you see--was wealthy, one of the first citizens of Lodz, but a fierce patriot. My father andmother were married in that city, and lived there very well till theuprisings against the Russians in 1847. My family had the folly to takepart on the side of the nation; and when the strikes were put down, mygrandfather was transported, my father exiled from the city, and all theproperty confiscated. Thus, when I was born, we were as poor as theserfs that were our neighbors; but we lived decently, because my motherwas a lady. 

"Our village was on the estate of Ladiskowi: the country-seat of thegreat family of that name. Before my birth, Prince Ladiskowi heard of myfather from our Staroste, and came to see him. After that we weresometimes received at the castle--discreetly, of course, for even theLadiskowi were under the espionage of Russian spies. But the Princeappreciated us, and wished to do more for us than our father permitted. We had books always when we wished them; and my sister Marie learned toplay on a spinnet that they had up there, and had belonged, they said, to the Leczinski themselves. 

"I wasn't interested in spinnets. That castle held something better forme. I can scarcely remember the time it first began; but I was not morethan seven when I told my mother one night what I was going to be. She, I remember, hoped I would say a soldier, to fight for Poland when thefinal struggle should come. But I had seen enough of patriotic ruin. Besides, " he went on, a little hastily, "I knew in my heart, even then, that art is greater than all other things. --That's not cant, IvanMikhailovitch! It's not hypocrisy!--Listen. 

"Princess Ladiskowa had been the daughter of a noble artist; and she hadher father's love for form and color, though she didn't paint. Instead, she filled the upper gallery of that old fortress with a collection ofpictures that would make any gallery in Europe famous. And she added toit continually, until a quarter of all her husband's wealth hung in thatroom. 

"Those pictures were the things that drove me to this pass. I don't knowwhere my talent comes from; but I soon found out how much was in me. Iwould sit in that hall by the day, looking, studying, puzzling out thesecrets of line, and color, and technique, and conception, in thebest--always the best, things, you understand; till I felt that I _must_begin work myself. So I went to my father one day and asked him forpaints and pencils, brushes and canvas. At first he didn't believe inme. But I begged so long that at last he sent to Chölm for a littleoutfit, and I took them up to an empty room in the castle, where Marieand I always played in winter, when the family were in Warsaw; and thereI worked in secret, at my picture. "

Here Joseph paused to finish his wine, and then lay back rather wearily, while Ivan replenished the glass. He was plainly exhausted again; andhis host, interested as he was, suggested that the tale be finishedlater. Joseph, however, protested. He felt himself a trespasser both onIvan's time and on his charity. Yet he sorely needed help, and Ivan, ifhe were to give it, must know all his history. 

"It was spring, sir, when my first picture was finished; and I had cometo feel that the winter and my hopes were wasted. I was terriblydisappointed in myself; because I had never dreamed that imagination, love of the work, and tremendous confidence, cannot produce finishedpaintings. My father, though, had come to be interested in what I wasdoing, and insisted on seeing what I had accomplished. I stood with myback to him, sick with mortification, till I heard him whisper one wordof high praise. Then I found, to my amazement, that he was astonished atmy success. --I was only fifteen; nevertheless, I was furious, because, you see, my portrait of my sister had not the qualities of theVelasquez, the Guido, the David, or the little Vandyke that I hadworshipped, each in its turn. 

"But from that hour my father became enthusiastic about my talent. Hegrew as eager as I for the return of the Prince, in order to get hisadvice about my future. We were both sure of his help and patronage whenhe should arrive. But we could not know that my personal misfortuneswere to begin at once. It was August before the Ladiskowi came thatyear; and they remained in the country barely two months. The Prince wasill, and the Princess spent all her time in nursing him, till theystarted for Baden to take the waters. We saw them scarcely at all. Theydid hear of the picture, and the Prince sent for me to congratulate me. But I was not alone with him for a moment, and so got no opportunity toask for help more useful than praises. 

"When they went away, I knew I must wait another year for my chance. Buteven that was not to be. For, next year, they did not come at all to thecastle. Prince Ladiskowi's illness had become incurable; but it tookterribly long to kill him, and he had to be kept in a higher, drierclimate. On his death, two years and five months ago, we found he hadleft my father one thousand roubles, and firewood from his forestsforever. This money was left to _us_. Well then, saying nothing of thewood, my share as eldest son was at least two hundred and fifty roubles. With this I determined to set out for Moscow, enter the school ofpainting, and work so hard that, by the time my money was gone, I couldsell pictures enough to support myself. Later, I believed I could sendfor my sister, have her keep house for me, and perhaps give her pianolessons, thus relieving my parents, who were all but destitute, now, through the loss of their patron. 

"When I spoke to them of my plan, they made some difficulties about thejourney and my life in a Russian city; but I waved them all away. Theyoffered me half the money then; but, though perhaps you will say it wasan artist's due, I wished to be more than fair, and did not take it. Iwaited one week for my mother to prepare my clothes. My furs I left tomy father, since I could not carry them all the way in August weather;but my first purchase in Moscow had to be this wretched coat and cap, and some woollen gloves. You are amazed, I see. But, though it was onlyAugust 18th when I left Chernsk, it was mid-October before I entered thestreets of this city of the enemies of my race. For alas! I am a Pole;and the very sun that shines in Russia refuses to give me warmth. 

"From Chölm to Moscow, by the straightest road, is thirteen hundredversts. Not one step of this way did I go by train; and but a hundred ortwo in passing carts. Twice, at Minsk and at Smolensk, I stopped andworked for a week, till I had gained an extra rouble or two for food orbeds along the way. True, there was charity among the peasants; and Ifound many a meal left on the window-ledge for wanderers. But the foodof convicts and beggars!--it was long before I, the son of a gentleman, could touch it!--More than once, truly--Ah well, I suffered! I sufferedevery fatigue, every hardship, that I might reach my destination with mybag of roubles as little depleted as possible. 

"Two terrible months of hunger and ceaseless fatigue!--Didst thou asmuch for music, sir? But no. No. You are already an artist, and famous, while I--oh, it is too much! God is not good!" And Joseph sat suddenlyup, excited by this remembrance of by-gone misery, forgetting the suddenexhaustion so recently relieved. Two spots of red flamed in his cheeks;and his blue eyes began to shine, feverishly:

"Who are those that succeed? Only the ones that have shelter for theirheads, clothes to keep them warm, food to give them strength towork!--more; who can hire the right models, buy good paints, goodbrushes, flawless canvases;--who can afford to study, to dream, to wait!But to start at the very beginning--nay, with certain faults to_unlearn_--and expect to win fame on a fortune of two hundred and fiftyroubles! Why, I _began_ in terror! My first talk with the professor atthe Institute showed me my situation. --And all the other students had somuch! They spent, in a day, an hour, what I stretched out to two weeks, to a--a--"

Ivan sprang up, ran to the sofa, and caught the lean figure in his arms. Kashkarin had wrought himself up to a wretched pitch. The last words hadbeen uttered in a tone high and wavering; and, as Ivan reached him, thelife left his body, his cheeks grew gray, his eyes dulled, his breathingbecame fast and light. His rescuer plied him with weak _vodka_, chafedhis hands, bathed his temples, would have summoned a doctor, but thatJoseph soon began to revive, and in another twenty minutes seemed moreor less himself again. Indeed, he presently unclosed his eyes, murmuring:

"I must go on, my friend. It is not long now. --Will you--hear me?"

And Ivan, who had become a little restless with his desire to get towork, answered, after an instant's hesitation, in the affirmative. 

"It took me a month to find a place where I dared stay; and it's takentwo years to find out just how horrible life can be. We had always beenpoor enough; but at least I had had shelter, clothes, a bed, and food. Here nothing comes naturally; and I could buy only two hundred and tenroubles' worth of everything. One comfort I had. I was in theart-school, free; and they thought I had talent, and was doing well. When I worked I was happy; I could forget. But at the end of one yearthey said: 'Two years more. Then you can begin to exhibit, and will havethe right to sell. ' And now only one of those two years is gone; and--Iam here, _here_, alive only through charity!--No, do not speak! I musttell you. I owe much money, for my rent, for food, for paints; and I wascarrying my last canvas back to the dealer's to-day, to ask him to giveme back half of what I paid for it. My room-mate, Wencislaus Wendt, hasdone what he could for me. But the one who, in the beginning, didmost--who once helped us all in the Students' Quarter--Boris Lemsky--wastaken away in the first spring after I came. He was a university man;but he was good to me. I owe him my life: everything I have. And nowthey say that--what is it, Ivan Mikhailovitch?--Why do you look so? Doyou know what became of him?"

Ivan had bent his head forward on his arms. "Boris"--the voice wasmuffled and unnatural--"Boris was shot through the heart, trying to getto the rooms of Sergius Lihnoff, eighteen months ago. "

"By--by whom?"

"The police. "

"A--ah!--And his brother--Féodor?"

"In Siberia. "

There was a moment's pause. Then, after a little, the youth said, dully:"Yes, it is like Poland here. Only, in this country, it seems they killtheir own patriots. --Boris _could_ not have done a wrong!--Ah, IvanMikhailovitch, my story has been no story. It hurts me too much to thinkback through the last months. I fought with starvation, and lost. Now Iam here. I can do nothing; can be of no use. I am sick. I am tired. Iam discouraged. Better have died on the street before I was fedagain!--I can never go back to my family, to burden them with mywretched existence--a failure added to failures. --I have in me the bloodof Titian--of Rubens--of Raphael! I see, I feel, I create! Color is lifeto me: form is the bread of my soul! But I cannot get beyond my body. Hunger and cold and fever--then all the visions go!--The soul of anartist, mated with the existence of a serf!--Almighty God! Do me justiceat last, and free me from this useless torture of life!"

Once more carried beyond himself by this fragmentary outpouring of hislong and unsuccessful battle, Joseph sank back on his pillows, weak andshaken, but evidently at the end of his confession. 

Ivan was deeply moved; and in more ways than one. He pitied, profoundly;yet he wondered at much in this ethereal, fair-haired youth that wasutterly foreign to himself. --He had had no more than Joseph to startwith; and he had not starved. --But what use in saying that?--Instead, hereturned to his chair, and sat lost in thought, rapidly adding, thewhile, to the pile of cigarette stubs which were thrown upon the tableat his side. Joseph, meantime, lay still, watching him with wearyexpectation, while the clock ticked slowly round the hour. 

As distant Ivan Veliki boomed the half after four, and the increasingechoes of _troika_ bells without, announced the advance of thefashionable driving-hour, Sósha entered with tea, and lighted the bigtable-lamp that presently mingled its soft radiance with the lastglimmer of the dead day. Then, when the old servitor had shuffled out, Ivan rose, cigarette in hand, and, gazing down upon the stranger's whiteface, said, gently:

"My brother, Russia has used you hardly. You must, therefore, let me, not only a Russian, but also a fellow-workman, a lover of art, try tomake amends for your unhappiness here. I can give you your chance--afair one this time. It will be a joy to me as well as a duty to help youas others helped me in my time of need. --To-night, however, you are tooweak for further emotion. You shall sleep here; and to-morrow, when youare more yourself, we will arrange for your future. --And now, if it willnot be disturbing to you, I shall play for an hour. You have given me anidea, and the mood to work it out. --Perhaps you will understand--or itwill soothe you--"

Joseph's face brightened. He answered, with a note of eagerness in hisstill shaking voice: "Ah, I had not dared ask you to play to me. --Butindeed I shall understand!--Music brings pictures of heaven. "

Thereupon Ivan seated himself at his instrument. When, as he expressedit, he was in the mood, few men could improvise more exquisitely, with atechnique more Chopinesque, than this man whose orchestral work was sotremendous: so filled with the rolling grandeur, the passion, theenergy, the gigantic climaxes, the seething, troubled depths, of anature titanic in its conceptions, overpowering in their presentment. 

For a time Ivan played, so delicately, so melodiously, and, withal, withan individuality so elf-like in its quaintness, that Joseph's quiveringnerves were stilled and relaxed as by the caresses of a woman's hands. Then, when count of time had ceased, when the room was filled withvelvet shadows, and the rich, dim glow of the crimson-shaded lamptouched only the seated figure and the ivory keys his fingers pressed, Ivan's low voice added itself to the melody. He began to speak, accompanying his words with music like the tracery of fine gold thatsets forth and enriches the deep beauty of perfect jewels. What he saidcame from him spontaneously, without any previous arrangement. It was asif the long-locked door to the inner sanctum of his soul had swungopen, betraying all the wealth of a treasure-room the very existence ofwhich was unsuspected by any other man: for the treasure it containedwas the gathered store of his many years of labor, moulded now into the_Credo_ of his working life: the creed by which he lived; which wasslowly writing itself upon his face. 

"Art, " he whispered, softly, arabesquing the beloved, misused word witha ripple of vagrant melody, "is a high goddess, one supreme, all-sufficing, all-embracing, absolutely jealous. Her priests may servenone and nothing but her; and she is worthy of such worship. --Beauty ofAphrodite of old--chastity of Artemis of the crescent moon--wisdom ofhigh Athene, of the silver spear--integrity of Hera the quiet-browed, giver of laws--these she combines in her perfect whole; these are thevirtues we are bound to emulate who serve her. Let them that are weak, that understand not, complain of constraint under these rules. Such areunworthy of the trust. Those things that we need--imagination, independence, courage of conviction--every quality bespeaking her onegreat requirement in the characters of her chosen ones--originality--areto be fostered in a hundred ways not unpleasing to her. But this firstquality, which may not be bought either by labor or by gold, has beenmade the mark whereby she knows and claims her own. Once self-ordained, a man finds himself subject gloriously to her: divinely driven to prayerand fasting, to unceasing labor, to the long and beautiful vigils of thenight that bring him her highest rewards: inspiration and love of herand of her service. For us she is lady of night and of day, of sun andsky and the green earth. Through her eyes we see and marvel at them all. Of her many favors to her chosen ones, which is more perfect than thatpower of inward vision that brings forth secret beauties in every cornerof our earthly dwelling-places? How small a price to pay for thisalone:--the absolute fealty to her that is her one demand?

"Yet there have been many unfaithful: many that have been called, andfound wanting. --Bitter enough their self-wrought punishment! theyearning, never to be crushed, for her gifts once known and now removed. These in their anguish do her much despite: paint her as devil, callPhilistia down upon her in wrath. They call us blasphemers who serveher. Yet what is she but the great Goddess of Truth, holding by one handthe All-Father; by the other her Mother, and ours? And by this Union ofwhich she was the first-born, cometh also all we can know of perfectbeauty, all our heritage of creation and creative power. Shall it not befor us to make this known to men? to the unbelievers? Showing them that, in working for our Lady, we are likewise serving their God, who is alsoours?

"Thou, Joseph, hast been chosen her priest. Thou and I together know howlittle is any reward but those she gives: how vain that petty applauseof the Philistines for which many an artist has betrayed both his artand himself. But we who remain long at our apprenticeship, learn wellhow petty is the outward and visible of success. --Have we not been ledup into the high place of communion, where, for a little, the veil islifted, and the image of Truth shown blazing in the splendor of Hershrine? These are our moments of fortification and of revelation. No manwho has stood before that vision has failed to understand why the lawsof Truth and the law of the mass of men can never be the same. In thecommunion we gain the strength that bids us disdain all applause of mangiven for things other than the highest and best. And it is our secretsense of this, which, through humiliation and defeat, through mockeryand revilement, through want and privation, shall keep us steadfast andof good courage!

"Look you, Joseph, even now she stands, Immaculate One, radiant upon herheight, searching, with fearless eyes, our hearts, and those of thatmultitude that kneel, and lift their arms to her in supplication!--Andsome can raise their eyes to hers and smile; and some--look you, alas, how many!--must shrink and cower away beneath the scrutiny before whichno deception will avail. --Those now withdraw themselves, to begin theirbitter journey backward and down--down to their native Philistia: butnever again will they rejoice among their fellows, for they have beheldthat which has lifted them far towards the stars; and the companionshipof clods must be hateful to them even in their fall. --But the rest, ohJoseph, see how they are gathered into those great mother-arms, andgiven comfort and good courage, power to continue on their upward way, strength to fight all battles, face all mockery, kill all slander, tillthe day dawns when they shall receive both the homage of the low, andthe loving applause of the Most High; when they shall sit enthroned, wearing the double crown of man and of God. 

"Oh Priest, oh Painter, such is our Law. "

Ivan, moved beyond himself, struggled slowly out of the vision in whichhe had been enwrapped, his mind still soaring in regions of theimagination, where melodies sky-born did, indeed, surround him. But hisreturn to earth came with a quick shock. When at length his reluctanthands fell from the keys, Ivan turned, instinctively, to the couch wherethe stranger lay. The gaunt form there was motionless, the head thrownback upon the pillows, one hand hanging limply to the floor. Somethingin the attitude, and the faint sound of quiet, regular breathing, brought a flood of scarlet over Ivan's face. The Pole's lips were partedin an angelic smile. Joseph the painter was fast asleep!

CHAPTER XVII

HERITAGE

When he woke next morning, and the unusual incidents of the day beforecame back to him one by one, Ivan's sense of mortification at hisself-abandonment in the evening had but one saving grace: the fact thatJoseph had slept through his impulsive and extravagant fantasy. Butunhappily, as it presently appeared, this supposition proved a mistake. The youth had certainly heard part of his rescuer's parable; though howmuch Ivan did not attempt to discover, in his embarrassment at findinghimself burdened with a disciple who very evidently believed him aworld-famous man. 

First of all Ivan set to work to assure himself of the truth of theyoung man's story; and, this being proved, next sought his friends'advice about establishing him somewhere in the neighborhood of the bigart-school where he had worked, (which, as a matter of fact, happens tobe the best in Russia); meantime giving him the wherewithal to live tillhis course was finished. 

Unquestionably, Joseph had been in a state of abject destitution. Hisrooms were bare of every salable object save the cheapest of necessarytoilet articles, and a rather extravagant color-box and set of brushes. But this fact of his having refused to sacrifice the implements of hisart, put a final touch to Ivan's growing friendship for and belief inthe plucky boy who had suffered as he had suffered for love of his work. For one week Joseph remained in Ivan's rooms. At the end of this timehe, now fairly well recovered from the effects of his long privation, removed to the new rooms provided for him by Ivan, Nicholas Rubinstein, and four or five more intimates who had become interested in the youngfellow's career. With these rooms, of which the rent for three monthswas already paid, went a purse of five hundred roubles:--far more thanenough, Joseph protested, to keep him during the ten months that wouldelapse before the autumn _salon_ which would, he hoped, exhibit hisfirst picture. 

The young Pole made no trouble about accepting this help from his suddenfriends. Nevertheless, his gratitude was well-expressed and patentlysincere. Nicholas Rubinstein alone, felt some secret, uncorroborateddoubts about the character of the boy; but he was too doubtful of hisperceptions not to abuse even his own _alter ego_ for a pessimisticcynic. And when, within the month, he received from the protégé a smallportrait of himself, in which the likeness was so striking that itexcused every fault of execution, he tried hard to take Joseph to hisgenial heart as, years ago, he had taken Ivan, on sight. 

Every member of the group who had helped him received similar testimonyof the stranger's gratitude. But of them all only the picture of Ivan, apastel, in which the face alone was thrown out by the light of a redlamp, and the rest of the figure, seated at a piano, remained deep inshadow, was in any way remarkable for its execution. This, however, impressionistic though it is, remains to this day the one thoroughlycharacteristic portrait of Gregoriev; albeit in later life he sat for, and at the request of, three great artists. This little picture, however, being recognized as something remarkable, went into the _salon_in the following October, and received the first medal forpastels--completely overtopping the more elaborate oil which had alsobeen accepted, and which got a mention. --Truly, the Pole's second startin life bade fair to be as sensationally successful as his first hadbeen unhappy. 

Joseph once settled and happily at work, Ivan went back to his ownroutine again in excellent spirits. Now and then he saw the young man, who regarded him, as Ivan could not but know, as his benefactor, hisself-constituted guardian and adviser. Ivan was himself a man of so muchindividuality and independence that he failed to understand Joseph asone of those who cannot live without leaning, if not for help, at leastfor constant encouragement, on some one else. Ivan had, indeed, perceived that a little vein of weakness ran side by side with thepeculiar spirituality of the Pole. But so beyond his own nature was thiscombination, that it never entered his head to watch and guard the youngfellow as he might have done had he understood. Perhaps, in this way, Joseph's gift might have been saved to the world. But fate grants muchhelp to no man; and when Ivan's eyes were opened, it was already toolate. This did not come about, however, until, in the spring of the year1871, something had happened to change Gregoriev's mode of life almostas completely as he had altered that of the waif thrown up at his doorout of the troubled sea of the Akheskaia. 

 * * * * *

It was now twelve years since the youth Ivan, graduated from his fourpenitential years of military schooling, had taken his first long flightfrom Moscow, northward, into the joyous unknown: twelve years since hehad put behind him all that half-comprehended blackness of evil and grimunhappiness that had weighted his boyhood with vague premonitions ofcoming disaster. Indeed, had he been told, at the hour of his going, that he should never again know a month of life in the same house withhis father, he would have been possessed by a secret joy. Not so, however, Prince Michael. Nothing in all his merciless life had hurt thisman of shadows like the defection of his son. Nor did the rolling yearssoften the sting of loss. Rather, as, little by little, the mantle ofloneliness was drawn closer and closer about him, muffling him at lasteven from contact with the companions of his relaxation and license, thehardness and the bitterness in him increased, till something of it wassurmised even by the jackals that served him. Still, of the processes ofthat strange nature, no one in the world knew much. His high position, held against all rivals by power of fear, naturally brought him intocontact with officialdom, from Czar down to police-sergeant. But fromevery man he got the same species of servility, fawning or inimical, born of guilty knowledge of Michael's hieroglyphic map and hisrelentless use of it. And this attitude of the world, encouraged thoughit was by its recipient, bred in him no desire for intimacy with any ofhis kind, but only a half-indifferent, lazily calculating, contempt. 

There had been a time when certain of his privateoccupations--interviews with personages of wealth or influence, crypticconversations, resulting always, however defiant the beginning, in thesame grovelling pleas and promises--had amused and interested the cynicmost mightily: been the cream of his labors, indeed. But latterly eventhese scenes had palled; and it came to him with a faint shock ofsurprise that he was beginning to remember with relief those fewoccasions on which such talks had ended, by reason, truly, of some merewanton freak, in unconditional release. --Preposterous indeed that theonly acts of his life hitherto viewed with self-contempt, were beginningto seem the only ones bearable to remember!

His wife, a woman for whom he had had a certain tolerant affection, butno respect, he had probably not greatly mourned. Of friendship with hisequals, he knew nothing. So, of sheer necessity, all the personalinterest of his last years had been centered in the career of hisbanished son. --And ah! How he had suffered through that son! No otherblow devised by man or God could have touched him save just the disgraceand downfall of Ivan in Petersburg. During the months immediatelyfollowing the court-martial, the palace in Konnaia Square had been theabode of a fiend incarnate. Servants slunk from room to room in terrorof their very lives; and the Governor-General, an Imperial Highness, hadlooked forward with dire dread to his occasional necessary visits to thechief of the Third Section. This lasted throughout the summer. Then, inthe autumn, had come sudden opportunity for vengeance, of a sort, onIvan's persecutor, Colonel Brodsky, whose disgrace and exile wereachieved with marvellous swiftness, and who died, fifteen years later, in the horrible mines of Kara. Not until midwinter, however, did PrinceMichael's agents receive orders to locate, watch, and make report on thecondition of his son. It took some weeks before Ivan, half-starved, badly clothed, living like a day-laborer, was discovered in his garreton Vassily Island. Help was not proffered. But never again did Michaellose sight of the young man. 

In the succeeding years, the Prince watched the growing career of hisson with a mingled passion of anger, pride, humiliation, relief, and amighty, uncontrollable eagerness. As, slowly, wearily, beset with everydifficulty, Ivan climbed, round by round, the ladder of his chosenprofession, his father noted his progress far more accurately than hehimself. And when at last Michael was forced to realize that the youngerGregoriev had come to a distinction almost as marked as, and infinitelymore respected than, his own, the grim-souled Prince felt himself tornby an almost unbearable emotion, half delight, half remorseful pain. For, all unconsciously, the musician stood a living reproach to thefather whose ambition had found no better road to celebrity than that oftrickery, dishonesty, blackmail, --all-unscrupulousness; while the boy, by personal sacrifice and hard and honorable labor, had reached the sameend many years earlier. 

A pity, perhaps, that his father's inmost heart should have gone foreverunfathomed by Ivan. But deep down in the son's nature lay the sting ofMichael's desertion in the hour of his great need. That strangeinterview held between them on the night of the students' capture, haddone no more to soften the relationship between them than had the moneysent to Ivan on one or two occasions when it had not been greatlyneeded. As to the interview, indeed, it was only Ivan who came outunscathed; for the ring of Ivan's laugh--that cruel laugh which Michaelhad understood far better than Ivan himself--sounded for many a month inthe official's ears; and for a time he denied himself his greatest, butunacknowledged, delight. For three months he kept away from the opera onIvan's nights, thereby suffering incredibly. 

Many another incident showing the possibility of reconciliation betweenthe two might be recounted; but none brought result; and, in fact, tillthe very end, a mocking fate kept the two apart. 

In the January of 1872, Michael Gregoriev entered upon hisseventy-fourth year. Up to this time he had held his age back in theleash of an iron will. Death was, to him, the one unconquerable terror;and he was determined to hold it off as long as human mortality might. To the danger of personal attack in which he hourly dwelt, he wasabsolutely indifferent. But with the least suggestion of physicalsuffering, the thought of the relentless approach of that blanknothingness of death gripped him till his brow grew cold, and his limbstrembled. 

Up to the Christmas of that year he had kept the appearance of a man inhis fifties. Then, quite suddenly, his failure began. He was himselfaware of it in December. By the end of January it was the great topic ofthe kitchen. In mid-lent the Governor remarked upon it to theGovernor-General;--and hope began to stir in a hundred hearts: hope of along despaired-of release from the terrors of an invincible blackmail. 

Up to the middle of March he managed to get about alone. But as thebreath of spring began to make itself perceptible in the icy air, Michael was forced secretly to realize that will and body were on theverge of divorce. On the afternoon of March 13th, his sleigh wasannounced, ready to drive him across the city to a council with hiscolleagues of the police. His furs--cap and coat--were up-stairs in hisbedroom. Piotr delayed answering his ring. At the end of five minutesthe Prince, raging like a school-boy, left the house coatless, wearingonly a common felt hat, and in that guise drove for more than two milesin the open _troika_. It was a performance not unique; but it wasdestined to be his last. 

Prince Michael was carried home from the council and put to bed, burningwith fever. Two days later the whole city sat awaiting the six-hourbulletins that recounted the state of the mysterious official, whoseattack of double pneumonia was as serious as it was sudden. The noticeof the morning of April 3d read thus:

 "His Excellency has passed a critical night, and this morning it is feared that there is slight hope of recovery. "

By noon of that day Ivan was speeding across the city in his father'ssleigh, with Piotr, who had been sent for him, at his side. 

During the drive, Ivan did not speak. By this time he had somewhatrecovered from the shock of the news of three days before. But Piotr'sword that his father was actually dying, brought up those thoughtswhich, hitherto, he had resolutely refused to consider. And, as his mindwavered through innumerable irrelevant subjects, he was subconsciouslywondering why, in all the years of his banishment, the possibility ofreinstatement and the inheritance of that enormous fortune, had neveronce entered his head. That his casting-off had been final, he had notdoubted. Who had known Michael Gregoriev to forgive?--And now--even now, how could he have the faintest assurance that this summons meantforgiveness?--No. His watchword must still be:--Wait. 

When at last the flying vehicle halted at the familiar portal, the heavydoor swung open on the instant, and Ivan found himself facing asharp-eyed, lean-jawed man of forty-five, who announced himself one ofthe doctors in attendance, and begged "his Excellency" to come up-stairsat once. Marvelling at the form of address and the vast respect of himwho had used it, Ivan followed, docilely, and soon found himself in theantechamber to one of the state bedrooms, in which, it appeared, PrinceMichael had been installed. Here the stranger halted, and proceeded togive Ivan the details of his father's condition. These were of theworst; and Dr. Fröl Pavaniev strove in no way to make them appearbetter. --It was a peculiar form of flattery, but one heretofore usedwith excellent effect. --Ivan, however, failed to appreciate it; andpresently pushed past the pessimist, flung open the bedroom door, and--paused. A sound had reached his ears that struck him to the heart:a high, feeble, gasping wail, that was repeated again and again. Ivanshuddered, and immediately the smooth voice whispered in his ear:

"It is merely his breathing. --The lungs are nearly filled you see; andhis weakness is too great to repress the sound. However, we must notexpect--"

But once more Ivan shook off the unbearable man, and walked into theroom. It was a great, tapestried chamber, dusky in the earlycandle-light, furnished with heavily carved chairs and chests, and ahuge, four-posted bed. In a distant corner stood a man bending over atiny oil-stove, and stirring the contents of a steaming dish that stoodthereon. Beside the bed was a sister of mercy, with the white coif onher smooth hair, her white robes girdled at the waist by a rosary whichshe fingered, mechanically. Finally, in the bed, shaded by curtainswhich, on one side, were drawn tight, on the other thrust wide apart, lay the huge form from which issued those ceaseless, sobbing breaths. 

Ivan remained standing a little way beyond the threshold till Pavanieventered and passed him, and the sister looked around. Then, for aninstant, the wailing ceased, and was replaced by a high, wavering, querulous voice, that none would have dreamed of as belonging to MichaelGregoriev. 

"He is come?--Ivan?--Bring him to me!"

Only then did the other doctor turn and perceive the new-comer. He didnot summon him, however, but hurriedly poured his decoction into a cupand carried it to the bed. Then followed whispered words, the slowadministration of the draught, and some further performance requiringthe united efforts of the nurse and both doctors. Afterwards, all threedrew away, and Ivan felt himself called. At once he was at the bedside, gazing down upon the fever-ravaged face, with its stubble of beard andthe shock of white hair beneath which the cavernous eyes glowed andburned with something of their old fierceness. 

"Ivan!" whispered the hoarse and feeble voice. 

A rush of pity overwhelmed the son, and, for the moment, to his ownamazement, he could not speak. Instead, he lifted and pressed to hischeek one of the burning hands. At that moment the nun placed a chairfor him, whispering, adroitly, that strychnine had been given, that in afew minutes Prince Gregoriev would be much stronger, and that she, withthe doctors, would remain in the antechamber awaiting his summons. Then, evidently by command, the three left the room, and Ivan was alone withhis dying father. 

For thirty-five minutes the hired attendants waited in the anteroom, before they were called by the white-faced son of their rebellious andpowerful patient. Ivan emerged from the sick-room, motioned the three togo in, and then himself passed swiftly out and made his way down to hisfather's office, whither Piotr the omniscient presently brought a little_déjeuner_ and a bottle of champagne--of Imperial vintage. Ivan drankrather eagerly, but touched no food. The revelations of the last, emotional half-hour had affected him to a point of exhaustion. For, though no priest of the Orthodox Church had been summoned to theGregoriev palace, its master had made his confession--fully, withoutreservation, --to his son. All his life lay bare before the mental gazeof Ivan, who had in his pocket the slip of parchment containing the keyto the cipher of the famous map--that marvellous biographical history ofRussia which must always be a fortune of untold magnitude to itspossessor. For there was many a man in the white empire who would haveoffered a million roubles for its destruction on the day of Michael'sdeath; and there were yet others who would have given double the sum forits possession;--both of which facts Ivan had surmised. And Ivan knewalso, now, that this treasure was but as one gold piece in a mint. Hehad been left his father's sole heir; and a few hours more would see himone of the wealthiest Princes in Europe. Strange, then, that, as hereflected on these things, there was no joy in his heart, but, rather, sensations of revolt and horror, flaming against a background ofdreariness unspeakable: the combination forming an emotion the memory ofwhich caused this day to stand out from its fellows draped in midnightdarkness. 

It was afternoon before the young man reascended to the antechamber, where Pavaniev greeted him with the report: "Great exhaustion, lapsingfrom semi to total unconsciousness. " Any attempt at rousing mightpossibly prove fatal. --Was there any message?--No?--Then one could butwait. --These things were, indeed, most trying. And so Ivan seatedhimself on a bench against the wall in the dark little room, to wait. 

There come to most lives certain periods of crisis, when the violence ofshock drives away every commonplace thought or remembrance; when themind seems a comparative blank, and time ceases to have any meaning. Foran instant, or an hour, a mortal gazes out upon the void of eternity. Sowas it with Ivan, to-day. He sat for the most part huddled in a chair, lost in depths of the past, the strangeness of the present, the blank ofthe morrow. Memories of the last, agonizing, saintly hours of hismother's life, mingled themselves with remorse for his present numbindifference. A chaos of thoughts and dreams followed, bringing updetached visions of the various periods of his life. In the midst ofthem he was summoned to another meal; and he followed Piotr docilely tothe table, this time trying to force a little food between his lips. 

It did not occur to him to re-enter the bedroom;--afterwards he wonderedwhy. Neither, however, did he think of going to bed. Numberless peoplewere calling at the palace for information:--among them theGovernor-General, who came in person. Ivan, however, saw no one; and byten o'clock the house was wrapped in a vast silence. Piotr came to tellthe heir that his old room was prepared; but Ivan still sat beside thefire, smoking, lost in vague conjectures. It was as well that he had notgone to bed. Precisely at midnight--the ghostly hour--the older doctorcame quietly in to him. 

"Your Excellency, I regret to inform you that your father, PrinceMichael, passed from us five minutes ago. "

 * * * * *

At ten o'clock on the following morning Ivan, quiet, self-possessed, entirely himself again, came down to the small drawing-room for hismorning tea. He knew that a mountain of work lay before him; thoughthere were people enough to execute his orders. But the only commandwhich the obsequious Piotr could extract from the young Prince was this:

"Till twelve o'clock I will neither speak to nor see a single person. Atthat hour have the whole household assembled in the state drawing-room. "Only this bit of news could the excited valet of the dead Prince carryout to the kitchen; but the effect of his announcement was to send everyservant, male and female, scudding across the court to their ownbuilding, to prepare themselves for the inspection of the new master. 

Ivan, meantime, was occupying himself with the one matter which must beconcealed from all the throng of executors, lawyers and officials ofadministration, by which he would presently be surrounded. During thenight he had pondered on what was to be done concerning the affair ofwhich his father had spoken at such length. And by now his course waschosen; his way looked clear; his mother, from on high, seemed smilingdown on him in loving approval. 

At half-past ten he stood alone in that sanctum which was to know itsgrim master no more. Behind him was a locked door; before him, the hugemap, now entirely covered with the minute black figures thatconstituted the life-misery of many a respected malefactor;--that mapwhich Grand-Dukes had prayed to look upon, and which, saving Piotr, andtwice, in his boyhood, Ivan, no human eye but its creator's had everseen. 

Before this sinister cipher stood Michael's son; and in his hand was thelittle slip of parchment by means of which he was to read the strangesecrets of his father's rise and position. For some minutes Ivan stooddebating within himself as to his right to read so much as a fragment ofthis condemnatory document. If he began, what great name might notbecome forever dishonored in his thoughts?--Bah!--What need to fear forgood men, after all? With a cynical shrug, he advanced to where theparchment hung; and then, referring each second to his key, began toread at the top of one of the narrow columns. After fifteen minutes, hedrew the great table across the room, pulled pencil and paper towardshim, and set to work systematically. It was an hour before he hadtranslated the following disjointed items:

 "_March 18, 1832_: Contract for new outfits of line regiments Nos. 87-8-9 and 90, granted to C---- A---- (one of the Grand-Dukes). Perquisites understood, 30, 000 roubles. Actual per. 280, 000 roubles: all cloth, arms, and ammunitions being lowered two grades. Suspect Count A---- of complicity. Not proved. Remonstrance from H---- E---- overruled. "

 "_December, 1853. _ Indictment prepared, November 11th, for inquiry into recent deaths of Prince D---- and his heir, attributed to poisoning, by person or persons unknown (?). November 20th, Princess D---- engaged in secret service work for Alexis G----. November 26th. This day investigation dropped; reconsidered verdict states poisoning to have been by sterlet caviar. Public feeling high. Note: Wait definite development. Try woman first. "

Over these typical paragraphs Ivan sat for some time. They were what hehad expected. --He himself, indeed, remembered well enough the D----scandal, and the subsequent disappearance of the notorious Princess, who had been her husband's second wife, and had hated the heir thattook precedence of her own son. --Had Gregoriev finally exposedher? or had accident taken from Prince Michael this hold upona powerful minister, and one of the greatest beauties of hertime?--Faugh!--Sickening, indeed, this wretched system of blackmail, more systematic, daring and successful than ever blackmail had beenbefore!--That map! Good Heaven! What further revelations might it notcontain?--What great name of Russia was absent from it?--Crime, intrigue, peculation, faithlessness, treachery, treason--by these sinsof others had his father risen to his position and his wealth. Trustingto the ever-renewed baseness, cupidity, passion of humankind, and theircowardice in the possibility of discovery, Michael had known that hissources of revenue would never fail, his victims never rebel. So much, indeed, he had openly acknowledged. His defence had been: "No innocentperson could ever be touched by me. One mistake on my part, and I shouldbe lost. Whatever I may have done, Ivan, know that I have never been thecoward, never the remorseless traitor, that my victims are and havebeen. " And the man who could say this, the man who had taken pride inhis skilful manipulation of the world's evil, and had used it all hislife, had been his own _father_!

Little by little Ivan's rising emotions of shame and repudiation hadgrown into an excitement of righteous anger. All the blood in his bodyseemed to have rushed to his brain and to have remained there, throbbing. Before his mental eyes rose mental pictures of the events inhis father's life: deeds of dishonor unregretted, that ate poisonouslyinto Ivan's sensitive intelligence. The fearful significance of thefoundations of the enormous wealth that had come to him; its foulsources, its beginnings laid in filth, in deeds of blackness known tomen and left unrebuked through fear, came upon him, as it were, for thefirst time. In this mood he sprang to his feet, hands shaking, eyesablaze, in his soul such a rage as he had never been subject to. Foran instant he stood wavering, gone blind and sick with the fury ofhis shame. Then, with a hoarse and guttural cry, he threw himselfat the wall, snatched the great map from its fastenings, and tore, and tore, and trampled and tore again, till that long record ofRussia's corruption lay scattered at his feet, a pile of crushedand crumpled bits of the vellum that had been chosen because of itsindestructibility!

When the mood passed, as suddenly as it had risen, Ivan sank weakly backinto a chair, trembling, and gazing blankly at his bruised and bleedinghands. He was in this state still when, to his astonishment anddispleasure, there came a knock at the door. --Had the years of hisfather's discipline been obliterated in a single night?--What couldPiotr be about, thus to disobey his first command?--What!--Was the knockrepeated?

It was a stern and angry master that shot back the bolts of the door andopened it by half an inch. And it was a very humble voice that addressedhim from without:

"May the Prince pardon his servant!--What choice had I? His ImperialHighness the Governor-General commands your Excellency's presence. He isin the outer office. "

Struck though he was by the condescension of such a visit, Ivanhesitated. Then, with a gesture of impatience, he came out, ignoredPiotr's exclamation at sight of his bleeding hands, and locked the doorafter him, following his father's example of putting the key in hispocket. In one moment he was standing in the presence of the uncle ofthe Czar. 

The Grand-Duke's greeting was gracious in the extreme; and five minutesof condolences and conventionalities passed between them before Ivan, driven by the recollection of infinite work to be begun, precipitatedthat subject to which his Highness was troublously leading up. 

"The graciousness of your Imperial Highness does my father much honor. At the same time, realizing the value of your time, it emboldens me torefer to a matter that may seem to you unduly personal. I am beginningthe adjustment of my father's private papers, that all matters may be inperfect order for his successor in office. Now if there is--"

"My dear Prince, this brings us capitally to the second object of myvisit this morning. You are indeed most thoughtful. As it happens, I ammyself--hum--ha--interested in this matter of--You must understand thatI knew your father intimately, for many years. Having the highestrespect for his ability, I took him into my inmost confidenceon--hum!--many affairs. --So, my dear Prince Gregoriev, I will comestraight to my point. You have it in your power to do me the highestfavor. Among your father's personal documents, or somewhere, in someform, among his papers, there is something relating wholly to me: a fewbrief notes regarding an old, and quite unofficial, transaction which, now that your father is so unhappily lost to us, would be nearly orentirely incomprehensible and valueless to any one save myself. But tome, that paper happens to be of some moment: so much so, indeed, thatreally no recompense for your trouble in obtaining it for me would betoo great for you to ask. Whatever office might most appeal to you--"

"Your Imperial Highness will pardon me if I request permission to answeryou in deeds rather than words? Will you do me the honor to come withme?"

The Governor-General sprang to his feet. Ivan, without speaking, led theway back to dead Michael's inner room, into which the Grand-Dukepreceded him, his eyes falling at once upon the litter on the floor. 

The royal visitor turned silently to his host; and Ivan, answering hislook, said, slowly, without royal formalities, but as man to man:

"The sole condition that I must impose, and which, for your sake as wellas _his_ memory, you will grant, is absolute silence regarding what Ihave to say to you here. --Have I your promise?"

"Absolutely: upon the honor of my house and station!"

"The details of the incident to which you have referred, sir, I do notknow; but the paper containing it does not lie among my father'sdocuments. It, with many hundreds of such notes, was written upon a hugesheet of vellum which hung on the wall of this, my father's privateroom. Of the use he made of those notes, we shall not speak. --You werenot alone by more than a thousand men and women. --Yesterday, before hisdeath, I was given the cipher key to this document, and was urged tocontinue his use of it. "

The Governor-General gave a slight, involuntary groan. 

"How I carried out that wish, you may see for yourself, sir. The wholeof that infamous document lies there, on the floor, before you. Withinone hour those shreds will be in ashes. "

 * * * * *

"And your reward, Ivan Mikhailovitch?--What can I make you?--What have Ito give you?"

"Two things, your Imperial Highness: first, your hand--to me! Secondly, if possible, your forgiveness, --at least, not too much condemnation--ofthe crimes of him who was my father. "

But the Grand-Duke Dmitri, faulty though he might be, had not the viceof utter ingratitude. In that hour, and for the rest of his life, therewas no exertion of power or strength that he would not have made for theman who had voluntarily freed him from the yoke which, for years, hadbeen forcing him ever lower and lower towards the soil. He left Ivan'shouse that day with twenty years fallen from his face and his heart. Oneweek later a royal messenger entered Prince Gregoriev's presence, leaving in his hand a little packet, which was found to contain one ofthe great honors of Russia:--the white-and-gold cross of St. George, bestowed only on one who has performed a deed of surpassing personalheroism. 

 * * * * *

It took nearly three months to dissolve every vestige of the world thathad once revolved round Michael Gregoriev. At the end of that time therewas a new chief of the Third Section in Moscow, who dwelt far on theother side of the Moskva. Thus the great palace on Konnaia Square openedno longer to receive the great dignitaries of the mother-city: nor rangto any sounds of revelry by night. The formidable suite in the east wingwas closed; for the new Prince dwelt up-stairs, in rooms that had beenhis mother's. The palace routine knew little state. The staff ofservants had been cut in twain; but old Sósha was again in the house ofhis youth, having first superintended the removal of the furniture fromIvan's old rooms to the palace: articles gathered, one by one, duringthe years of Ivan's long struggle, and so endeared to him forever. Thegrand Érard, which had been his one great extravagance, stood in the newstudio between two high windows. And about it Ivan's new life revolved, dreamwise, for a time. Indeed, Piotr and Sósha and a handful of theirfellows, used to weep with the weakly sentiment of age, as they servedtheir young master in the rooms that had witnessed the long tragedy oftheir beloved Lady Sophia, who had been his mother, and whose gentlepresence, outliving the wild individuality of her lord, still hauntedthe house for them as for Ivan. 

CHAPTER XVIII

JOSEPH THE SOWER

Ivan's new life was monotonous enough, uneventful enough, but singularlytranquil. The spring this year had brought not so much a quickening oflife as a soothing sense of relief, relaxation, and a lazy contentmentof mind. For the first time in years, Ivan felt absolutely at ease onthe subject of money: knew no uncertainty as to future raiment, and foodand shelter. True, the acquisition of wealth had brought him a loss ofcompanionship: one never openly proclaimed, but perhaps, for thatreason, the more keenly felt. In June, at the end of the year's work, Ivan resigned his professorship at the Conservatoire, secretly gloryingin the prospect of thenceforward being free to devote himself wholly tohis own affairs. The resignation put him still further beyond the oldpale of intimacy with composers, painters and writers: the cream of thatintellectual and artistic Bohemia of which he had so long been anesteemed citizen. In mind, he was unchanged. But a millionaire Prince_and_ a genius to boot!--It was a combination too fortunate for thetoleration of any class. Where Fate gives too lavishly, man strives toeven things up for the spoiled darling of Heaven:--and usually succeedsuncommonly well. Envy, jealousy, injustice, --these Ivan believed he hadknown already. He found himself mistaken. It seemed now that not onefriend would remain loyal. Anton wrote a sneering and malicious letterfrom Paris, purporting to congratulate. Laroche openly mourned. Ugly-faced, big-hearted Balakirev shook his convict headmelancholy-wise. Even Nicholas and Kashkine could only hope, halfheartedly, that, despite his wealth, Ivan would stick to his workout of the inward necessity: the _divine driving_ of the great artist. 

Autumn justified the faithful. From the leisure of Monsieur Gregoriev, came his second ballet--"The Enchantress"--a series of rhythmical minormelodies in the most delicate of the composer's moods; a militaryoverture, which was one long series of tempestuously mounting climaxes, built on the theme of the Russian battle-hymn; six songs to poems ofHeine, with piano accompaniment; and, finally, the third of hissymphonies, declared by Balakirev too technical, as more resembling aclever experiment in orchestral possibilities, than a serious effort inthe most rigid of classical forms. 

Unfortunately, despite these flat disprovals of the accusations madeagainst Ivan by his oldest friends, the summer's work did little tosoften the feeling between the millionaire Prince and his scoffingfellow-workmen. Their cry now was: Who was he to step in between thefame, nay, the very bread, of men obliged to live by their work? Humph!He should see! It should be made very plain to him that neither wealthnor money could avail to win him entrance into the sanctums ofart!--him, the greatest, the only great, artist of them all! Ah! Bitterindeed was the fresh humiliation he encountered: knowledge that, whilehis music was beginning to be sought for by every orchestra in Europe, Russia would suddenly have none of him! Nicholas Rubinstein fought hislosing battles somewhat daunted by the constant cries of "hypocrite" and"toad-eater. " Kashkine filled foreign journals with his praises. Useless! Henceforth, for many years, the concerts at the Moscow theatre, now under the baton of Laroche, knew Gregoriev's name no more: untilthat day, indeed, when, with his last and supreme effort, by means ofthe sheer force of his genius, Ivan overrode them all, broke everybarrier down, and, winning victory unconditional, became at last theboast and the glory of the Russian musical world. But it was also out ofthis victory that Fate got her bitterest laugh at her puppet plaything. For death and fame ran neck and neck for his goal; and the race endedwith fame four lengths behind. 

Meantime, however, even in the midst of this first battle with hiscompatriots, Ivan and they were to meet one last time on neutral ground, under the white flag of truce. This was on the occasion ofvarnishing-day at the _salon_ of native painters--Russians and Poles;where were exhibited works by men _hors concours_, together with thoseof advanced students: both classes being required to pass anincorruptible committee of twelve, who spared neither veteran nor tyro. Hither, on the artists' day, came Ivan and his former circle, to enjoythe success of a young Polish student, whose three pictures--two oilsand a pastel portrait, were destined to become the sensation of theexhibit. 

The afternoon was a happy one. The little group about Joseph made commoncause of rejoicing over the work of their protégé. And, in later months, Ivan, sore wounded, came to remember these hours as the last of the old, free life of careless poverty, with its untold wealth of comradeship. 

Certainly Joseph's much-lauded work _was_ good. There could be noquestion of that. The boy's talent was pronounced, his style highlyindividual, his conceptions normal, unimpressionistic, but beautifullyhis own. One of his oils represented a peasant-girl of the south, leaning upon a black fence, looking off into her own gray future, withthat wistful, patient gaze so common to the low-class Russian. Thebackground was a shadowy suggestion of steppe farm-land, unobtrusivelyimplying vast distances of bluish-gray. The other work, more pretentiousin subject but even more severely simple in treatment, was that of awoman of fashion, seated by a table on which stood a lighted lamp, theglow from which shone full upon her joy-lit face, on thesewing-materials scattered about her, and on the little garment, newlyfinished, which she was examining. 

Joseph, his varnishing accomplished, stood about among groups offlatterers, his ethereal face, framed in its pale-gold hair, betrayingvery little of the elation that was tingling through him, as he listenedto the comments on his work made by these men who "understood. " Still, of all the extravagant words, not one meant to him so much as Ivan'sstrong hand-clasp and his smiling:

"It is worth the thousand-mile walk;--yes, and the starvation too, Joseph, isn't it?"

And Joseph bowed his head, in momentary, deep sincerity. 

 * * * * *

Nicholas Rubinstein was not wholly justified in his conclusion thatJoseph's manner to a poor and untitled Ivan would have lost the greaterpart of its obsequiousness. Joseph did care for his benefactor, honestly. But later in the afternoon there came a little incident which, in some measure, bore out the old musician's instinctive scepticism. Nearly every one in the room had gathered about one or another of thesamovar-tables, indulging in their favorite recreation of eating; andbusily talking shop. Ivan, however, still occupied with the work of hisprotégé, remained seated before the smaller picture, comparing it with alittle, two-year-old sketch in oil which he had brought with him. Presently Joseph moved towards him. Nicholas, watching, saw the youngfellow hesitate, palpably, for an instant, and then speak a few rapid, low-voiced sentences into Ivan's ear. Ivan's face betrayed a strain ofsurprise; but Nicholas saw the nod that accompanied his answer, and knewthat it meant assent--to what, he guessed. Later, when good-byes werebeing said, Joseph was somewhat discomfited at the extreme chilliness ofthe gruff old man, who had seen what Joseph imagined he had keptabsolutely invisible:--the passing of certain hundred-rouble notes fromIvan's hand to his own:--Ivan could now so well afford to give!

Late in the afternoon, when the young painter regained his own studio, he threw himself upon his battered sofa with a sigh of relief that washalf-petulant. He had had an afternoon doubly successful; for he hadtaken a long-contemplated plunge. In his pocket was another whole yearof frugality; or a month, one little month, of extravagance. Hisquestion now was, which should it be? If he took a scholarship witheither of his pictures--and how they had been admired to-day!--there, initself, was a year's subsistence. Again, would not one or both thepictures sell, at a good price? The whole wealth of Moscow would passthrough those rooms during the next month. Only take the fancy of awealthy man, or woman, and he might say good-bye forever to frugality:to his whole life of unrelenting poverty. 

Ah, how he hated it, all those dreary little shifts that had formed thelaws of his life! How he yearned, how he longed, for a month ofcarelessness concerning the state of his pocket!--But what a humiliationto _ask_ for money--even from great-hearted Ivan! Ivan, with his newmillions--why had he not offered something, instead of letting himselfbe dunned? Truly, truly, Providence--_his_ Providence, was a sorry jade!Tricks enough she had certainly played him: him, to whom she had givenso enormous a secret capability for spending! With a crust for food, arag for his covering, a garret for shelter, she had endowed him withartist-dreams of luxury, with every extravagant desire, and but one, faint possibility of attainment. One, however, he had; together with ahigher ambition than that for material things. He longed for the bestsort of fame: was ready to do the best of work to gain it: provided onlyit should also bring him wealth!--Perhaps, of all the contradictionsabout this youth, the oddest was that, to those who knew him, his mostsalient characteristic appeared to be, not one of his many weaknesses, but his single, undying strength. Possibly, however, the explanation layin the fact, that Joseph himself did not realize the extent of his basernature. As yet his many thorns had in no wise hurt the single blossom. All his weaknesses could not hide his strength. A little more, indeed, and this strength might have grown till it hid all the rest, and formeda safe refuge for him from himself. --Ah! Had that but beenpossible!--How many geniuses have, indeed, come into the world only togo out of it unfamed, unsuspected? How many have dropped down to hellthrough the pitfalls of their own creation, and so been lost forever tothe world? Good God! How pitiful it is!--Turn we away. 

Joseph Kashkarin had many a plaint for his unfortunate lot. But the onewhich came to tongue oftener than any other, was that which proclaimedthe red fires of the artist-flesh to burn within him, while he bemoanedthe fact that he had never yet found a woman worthy of his devotion. Loudly did he bewail his over-fastidiousness; in which, nevertheless, hesecretly glorified. But now for so long had he mourned his lovelessestate, that, since of all the subjects of his brush woman was mostcongenial to him, he had gradually come to lay every fault of his work, crudeness of coloring, hardness of line, harshness of texture, finally, his very conventionality of conception, to the door of his ignorance ofthe grand passion, in which he expected to attain to his finaldevelopment. In the end, as might have been expected, Fate, wearying ofhis everlasting complaint, became suddenly impatient, and set aboutgranting his desire with diabolical fulness. 

Joseph's peasant-girl took a mention, but no prize. Chilled by this andby the unaccountable failure of either picture to sell, he laid away, for the hour, his dreams of folly, and worked through the wintersteadfastly. At length, however, the gray cold wore itself away; and, with the breath of the new spring, there came for Joseph desirefulfilled, and an end of steadfastness for the rest of his life. 

Endless as the Russian winter seems, there does, at length, when hope isdormant, come that quickening of nature when the green steppes breakthrough snowy coverlets, when swelling buds burst the last, thinice-films from the branches, and the melancholy peasant-chants comenearer to the major key than at any other season. Now, also, was thetime when young blood rushes like sap through the veins, and artists'dreams turn, irresistibly, to the greatest of their subjects. On such aday it was that Joseph Kashkarin and Irina Petrovna came for the firsttime face to face. 

Irina's reappearance in the city of her brother's fall, was made a yearor more after the battle in the Akheskaia. The history of thetwelvemonth of her hiding, lay buried in that oblivion that must shroudfrequent periods of lives like hers. It seemed destined that she shouldflash, at intervals, across certain horizons, and never without bringingto bear some momentary, powerful influence upon the life she illumined. She was not, like some of her class, led by principles more or lessconsistent and dependable: sordid greed for money; completeselfishness; experienced heartlessness. To her own detriment, Bohemiaand penury could attract her as surely and as frequently as heavilypaid-for luxury. Contrast, indeed, constituted the one law of herlawlessness. Without this, how had it been possible for that firstcontact with the young painter to have filled her, instantaneously, withthe variable flame that had so often been her undoing?

Mademoiselle Petrovna, a young person fairly notorious, by this time, among the half-world of three or four Russian cities, was now living inMoscow, perfectly protected by the patronage of the universallyconnected, much-besought, Prince G----: a venerable personage of someseventy winters, whose decorous mansion in the old Equerries' Quarterwas considerably better known than his _bijou maisonnette_ in theFourmenny district, at present occupied by the young lady of whom heardently desired to possess a discreet portrait: one which, as an "idealfigure" might safely decorate drawing-room or library in his ostensiblehome. But in this affair, as in all other really desirable matters, Prince G----easily perceived the difficulty of complete discretion. Alas! To no famous brush dared he intrust his rather obvious commission. And his search for a competent, yet unknown, artist, led him at last tothe studio of Monsieur Kashkarin, who had been recommended by the voiceof Fate speaking through the decorous tongue of the Academy director. 

Irina appeared upon the threshold of Joseph's modest studio clad fromtop to toe in a billow of flaming scarlet: tulle and velvet and poppiescunningly mingled, and well foiled by the solemn black of her escort'sformal garb. While the vision floated about the room examining thevarious sketches and studies scattered over the walls, Joseph managed tokeep his head sufficiently to go through the necessary preliminarieswith his Excellency, who, a trifle nervous about his situation, andconvinced that no danger to his possession could possibly accrue throughthis shy and boyish young artist, so plainly in the throes of poverty, was much relieved when the matter of size and price had been settled andhe could take his departure, leaving Irina to her first sitting. 

As the door closed behind the well-padded back of her Prince, Irina'sindifference dropped from her like a cloak, and she returned to theproximity of the intoxicated boy, captured his blue gaze with theslumbrous fire of her Oriental eyes, and then laughed at him--andlaughed--and musically laughed, till the fire from his brain leaped tohis fingertips. Suddenly, commanding her, he flung his canvas on theeasel, seized his charcoal, and, completely misconstruing his ownsensations, began to draw her as she stood. 

The work of that hour was inspirational. In it, he accomplished morethan was done in the succeeding month. In the very beginning he managed, unconsciously, to make Irina respect his talent. She saw all the best ofhim, the finest of his power: which never before had flamed so high, andwas never to flame so high again. But Irina, filled from top to toe withthe _tempérament_ that comprehends every vagary and something of genius, watched the illumination of his face and eyes till she was beset withhigh desire: till her present life, with its hollow luxury, itsspiceless ease, its savorless pretence, had become abominable to her. Her heart was in the room wherein she stood, set all upon the man forwhom she posed: whose eye, as yet, looked upon her not as man but asworkman, who sought only the secret message in her written for hisbrush. 

Through the first two hours, during which she alternately posed andrested, the two of them spoke scarce one word. In the beginning, theirsensations were crudely formulative. But they rose, by degrees, till, at the end, each was beset by a force so powerful that action had becomean impossibility. Their farewell ran thus:

"When do you wish me again, Monsieur?"

"When you can come, Madame. "

"In two days?"

"Yes; in two days. "

"_Alors_--_au revoir!_"

"_Au revoir_, Madame. "

Thus they entered upon the eight-and-forty hours that were to preparethe storm of the next meeting which was to set upon them both the sealof the inevitable. Well for Prince G---- that there came to him noinkling of the scene which ended that second afternoon! Irina lay backupon the artist's couch in the dreamy languor of her most dangerousmood. Joseph knelt on the floor at her side, her hands clasped in his, the broken, cryptic syllables of innermost intimacy already flowingfamiliarly between them. --How it had come about, neither one of themcould possibly have told. But that night Joseph, sitting alone at hishigh window gazing over the silvered city, knew at last that he hadentered into the kingdom: that, if he should live a thousand years, hecould never know again the pure emotion of the hours that were gone. Hesat there in the dusk, and his lips formed broken phrases--fragments ofthe thoughts that swirled through his storm-ridden brain:

"It has come!--It is here!--I am a true artist now. --Now, too, I am aman. --Irina!--Irina!"

And, alas! Joseph fully believed himself! He never knew that, had hebeen in truth an artist now, those last words of his would have been:"My work! My work!" For to those who hold the greatest gift, there is noexperience in life, from highest joy to highest sorrow, that is nottransmuted, in the crucible of the artist's brain, into some new form ofknowledge to be used in his labor. Such a one was Ivan, whom Nathalieherself could only have served again and again to quicken into higherand richer musical expression: to whom her loss had only meant manyyears of minor melodies. Such a man as Ivan, Joseph still believedhimself to be. Slowly, inch by inch, with every step a form of torture, was he to learn the truth. 

Thus abruptly, thus all unheralded, arrived Joseph's passion-time. Inthe beginning, Irina came for her sittings twice or thrice in the week. Then, driven by the force of their two natures, the visits became daily, and there began, in the Fourmenny _maisonnette_, a system of shift andsubterfuge not wholly new to its mistress. None knew better than Irinaherself the inevitable end of this period of excuse and deception. But, so long as Joseph continued to combine for her those qualities ofnovelty, inexperience, and inexhaustible feeling that had seized sofirmly upon her imagination, she was reckless of discovery. After all, her Prince was proving exceptionally stupid and complaisant. Her wordswere gospel to him; and her frequent invisibility seemed only to whethis appetite for to-morrow. 

Meantime Joseph, perfectly ignorant of his road, careless of the future, enamoured of each passing hour, left Irina absolutely free so far as hercourse was concerned. He himself, however, was neglecting hisprofessional duties. All the work he did was upon two portraits of her;for he had decided to finish for himself that first, Carmen-likecreation so happily seized upon. Meantime, there was another for thePrince; in which the too-vivid draperies were toned down to pinkishclouds; the background left in misty indecision; and all his careexpended on the face: a face that presently looked forth from the canvaswith a gaze so startlingly lifelike, that Irina herself frequentlyshivered at its uncanny reality. 

No. There could be no doubt about the marvel of Joseph's presenttechnique. Yet, for all that, he had already lost something of hisformer purity of style. And now, for six long months, he worked atnothing but studies of the same subject; knowing only the criticisms ofIrina herself. The days of honest labor and study, the earnestself-criticism and self-examination, were gone. For the moment he mightbelieve himself to be of the elect few. But the period was brief; and, with the coming of the first cloud, the whole horizon suddenly grewblack. 

It was the early twilight of an October day. For the third or fourthtime, Irina had failed in her appointment, and Joseph, sitting alone, waiting for the sound of her step, had drifted into a reverie concerninghimself and his summer's work. He was kneeling in the midst of a dustylittle group of last year's studies, regarding them with newlycontemplative eyes. Were they, after all, with all their muddy color anduncertain composition, better--actually _better_, in the fundamentalsthat count, than those two glorified forms that ruled the room?--For thefirst time since the very beginning, he doubted: began to feel aweariness of that garish sea of color, beside which the dull littlestudies suddenly looked so quietly restful; so sincere. 

He had come thus far in his musing; and his face was troubled; his blueeyes had darkened, when, suddenly, without warning, his door was flungwide. The well-known, silken swish of skirts, a breath of the familiarperfume of gown and hair and person, and then Irina--an Irinaunfamiliar--had entered, shut and bolted the door behind her, stared athim for a moment, and then began to weep, hysterically. 

"_You!_--But Irina--I--you. --But there is no light for the pose now!"

"Ah, _mon Dieu_! A sitting!--Pouf! Listen, mon cher! It has come. Ihave always known it must. --Monsieur le Prince knows all thetruth. --Quelle scène!--Incroyable pour un viellard!--And I am banished. I have none now but you, mon ami. What shall you do with me, Joseph?"And, as she spoke, her arms crept sinuously about the young man's stifffigure, and she drew him, by degrees, to the couch, at her side. 

There followed silence: a silence so long that, almost for the firsttime in her career, Irina began to wonder if she could havemiscalculated the strength of her hold on this boy for whom she hadconceived so violent a passion. 

Had she, indeed, been able, at that moment, to read the depths ofJoseph's mind, her wonder would probably have been augmented to fear. For, now that the thing that Joseph had been wanting for months had cometo pass, he was suddenly thrown back upon himself in a panic of doubt. His mind was a blind chaos of mingled emotion and desire: the new-bornanxiety concerning his profession; the powerful fascination exerted bythe mere presence of the woman he loved; and, lastly, a selfishlyinconsistent anger that Irina's act had forced him at last to thelong-desired point of decision. 

These three feelings warred within him, and the little force of goodfought valiantly and well. But, unhappily, Joseph had always regardedthe promptings of conscience as unwarrantable and unnecessary; and thatinner voice, so often stifled, had grown weak. Irina was now beside him, the fragrance of her personality stealing upon him with all itsaccustomed magnetism. Surely, too, she had been inspired to the silenceshe kept? He never dreamed of the heart-sickness that was slowlyinvading her. Had he guessed it, that of the brute which lay in him, would instantly have risen up against her. For the young gentleness ofhis face belied him. As it was, however, there came a moment when thebreath of perfume was strong; when conscience took a step too far. Oneinstant--and he turned, clasping her in his arms:

"So let it be, beloved! Thou hast come to me:--be mine! If I have littlewealth, I can give thee love:--love, the glory of life, clothed incolors of scarlet and gold!--Thou art here to be my inspiration. Maystthou find me worthy!--Ah, see! The world shall kneel to us yet: shallglorify us with laurel and with gold. --Yes, it has come at last, beloved, the freedom of our love!"

And the woman, with a half-sob, yielded herself to the strong, youngarms, nor wasted a thought upon that crushed and broken talent now lyingbetween them, dead, upon the paint-stained floor. 

 * * * * *

Such was the beginning of their hundred days: the three months' madnessthat was to become the amazement and the scandal of the Students'Quarter. Irina's history, well known to every one except her lover, keptthis strange romance always vivid, always replete with dramaticpossibilities. Meantime, however, during the first weeks, the small_ménage_ prospered amazingly. Irina had been living for some time amongcloying luxuries. She brought with her a considerable sum of money andjewels, the amount of which seemed, to Joseph's eyes, princely enough. He rejoiced over their sudden access of wealth; while she amused herselfby adapting her tastes to the comparative poverty of her present life. Moreover, the enthusiasm that was really borne from the pleasant noveltyof this existence, seemed, to the boy, wholly the result of her love forhim. He had been possessed by a sudden demon of work. --Ah! _How_ heworked, during those brief weeks! He had resigned, now, from hisclasses, and was painting for the public. In the beginning, his thingscaught the general fancy, and he had an unquestioned vogue. It waspot-boiling, certainly; but, for the moment, glaring faults wereconcealed by the meteoric brilliancy of his technique. Irina was hisonly model. But what the world likes, it is willing to have repeated;and head after head of the beautiful woman was sold, and still thedealers clamored for more. 

Of his old work--those laborious little studies of still life or nature, the public would have none. Even the two life-sized pictures, which hadmore than a little merit in them, remained unpurchased. Both were forsale now; for Joseph needed no portrait of what was his; and PrinceG---- naturally never commanded his to be delivered. 

There did, at length, come one offer for the Carmen picture; but of itJoseph never heard. It had been made by a man who, calling at the studioone day, found Mademoiselle Irina alone; and to whose impulsiveproposition she had replied--with a certain manner--that his price wastoo low--"as yet. " Rapidly estimating the pretty woman, and catching thetone of her last word, the gentleman said no more about the picture; butpresently left the studio and the lady together, and returned to hisclub--to bide his time. 

Six weeks saw the end of the first phase of this oft-acted drama. Intoxicated by the success which no one had as yet explained to him, Joseph began suddenly to discover spending-powers of his own. Afterthat, work as he would, a Raphael could scarcely have kept his _ménage_out of debt. Irina, watching her lover minutely, and perfectlyforeseeing the forthcoming exigencies of the situation, was quiteprepared when Joseph came to her for advice. That night was the first onwhich they drove to a certain house in the aristocratic Sretenskaia, where, by day and by night, the various rooms glowed with light, and, during twenty hours of the day, a dozen great, green tables werewreathed by men and women to whose ears the chink and rustle of gold andnotes were sounds that followed and drove them, day by day, night bynight, on towards that low-lying land where dwell the throngs that aregathered together in the outer darkness that is so much denser than thetomb. 

Lights!--Green tables, gold-bespattered!--The droning undertone of_croupiers_; the continual, languid in-rake and out-rake of goldenpiles, of crackling notes, of _rouleaux_--on one of which the old-timeJoseph could have lived so well for months: here, side by side, themuch-remarked woman, the pale-faced, angel-eyed youth, quietly tooktheir places, and began to play. 

CHAPTER XIX

HIS HARVEST

"No Ivan, you'll do better alone. You have influence with him. --GoodGod! a year ago he worshipped you! I believe there was something youtold him--some pointer you gave him at one time about work, that made animmense impression on him. --You mean something to him. Me, he dislikes. He knew months ago that I--well, saw something of his infirmity. But, while I don't believe in him, this affair mustn't go on. The fellow_could_ have learned to paint. He's killing himself now, not physically, but mentally and morally. --The whole city's waked up to him. His pace isunprecedented. 

"Come, there's nothing more to say, Ivan Mikhailovitch. Go and pull yourprotégé out of the mire--if you can!"

The two men rose, simultaneously. Ivan was very pale. He was still inthe first shock of full revelation; and it was a moment or two before heput his hand into that of Nicholas, and answered, simply: "Yes, I willgo. "

"Soon?"

"Oh yes. " The reply had a weary tone. "Yes. I will go to-day. "

Rubinstein nodded with satisfaction. His self-imposed mission wasaccomplished. A moment later, after a close hand-clasp, he was gone. 

It was the first Wednesday of the new year. For the past three monthsIvan, who had been on a distant country estate, engrossed in hisfather's affairs, had heard nothing of the gossip of Moscow. Two daysafter his return, Nicholas came to him with the story of Joseph'sdisgrace and disaster; the tale over which the malignant city was nowholding its sides with amusement. Ivan, sick with amazement and regret, had promised his old friend to seek the young fool out and--and what?Remonstrate--with madness? Right, in an hour or two, a situation thatwas the climax of months of wrong? Impossible! All Ivan's instinctsrebelled against the idea. Nevertheless, as Nicholas had clearly pointedout, something must be done. Yet who but he, Joseph's first friend inRussia, had the faintest chance of success: of once more setting thosepurposeless feet on the upward path?--Thus, in the end, with his mood anindecisive mixture of pity and revolt, Ivan prepared himself for thenecessary visit. 

Nicholas and he had been lunching together in the Gregoriev palace. Thebrief midwinter day was still bright when the Prince's sleigh set itsowner down in the Academy Quarter, a door or two away from the tallhouse in which Joseph still retained his rooms. Ivan knew his way wellenough; but he stood in the empty hall before the closed door for someseconds before he could bring himself to knock, so strong was hisfeeling of impotence, his dread of intruding into these two, alienlives. At length, stifling his thoughts, he hastily clacked the brassknocker of the door. 

A moment. Then came the sound of a woman's voice, muffled, butstartlingly familiar:

"C'est toi, Joseph?"

Instantly, all the blood in Ivan's body rushed to his brain. Then, fiercely seizing the door, he thrust it open, strode into the studio, and found himself face to face with Irina Petrovna. 

Irina was garbed very much _en negligée_, but Ivan's profoundamazement, (by some freak of chance the woman's name had never beenmentioned to him) for a few seconds prevented his noticing that she wasstanding beside a trunk half filled with her own garments, more of whichwere scattered about the room. Looking from her dishevelled figure tothe box, the significance of her evident occupation was suddenly bornein upon him. 

The question which had risen to his lips was prevented by the woman'sexclamation, made in a voice whose usual velvet tones--how long familiarto him!--were now broken and harsh and strained by her palpable emotion:

"_You_ here, Ivan!--_You!_"

He raised his eyes to hers, looking her calmly in the face; for, suddenly, by her confusion, his self-control had returned to him, and hefelt his power. "Yes, Irina; I have come for a special purpose. But--you--" he looked doubtfully from her to the trunk, "you--andJoseph--are leaving this house?"

"No!--Ah, wait, wait, I will tell you!--Will you sit down?"

Ivan turned to obey her, and, an instant later, found himself alone. Irina had disappeared into the adjoining bedroom, whence she emerged, ina very short space of time, clad in a tea-gown that bore the air--andthe name--of the greatest of Parisian _couturières_. Her appearancecorresponded with the garment; for Irina's dramatic instinct for effectwas unfailing; and, penniless and debt-laden though she was, no Duchesseof St. -Germain could have surpassed her now in beauty and in _chic_. 

As she entered the room and seated herself on the couch with a mannerand a smile that affected him powerfully, a great discouragement cameupon the man. He was here on man's business: to fight with a weak managainst that man's weakness. How was he to cope with a woman: and, aboveall, such a woman as this?

As the question passed through his mind, Irina herself answered it:

"Eh bien, Monsieur le Prince, you have come, I am sure, to help thatpoor Joseph! Is it not so?--Let us forget the acquaintance which we havehad, you and I. Let us speak of that little one who, in his heart, worships you, monsieur, though you have not come to him. Well, you hearof his debts? of his disgrace? his fever for play?--So, at last, youyield: you come!--Good!--You find me here. I embarrass you. Néanmoins, Itell you, monsieur, that I, also, in my way--I, who have so hurt him, pauvre enfant! am at last wishful for his repentance and recovery. 

"You have asked me if _we_, _Joseph et moi_, were leaving this place. Itell you no. _I_ am leaving it. _I!_ To-night, when that boy comes backfrom the 'Masque, ' he shall find himself once more unencumbered. --Well, I have allowed myself the luxury of explanation with you. But now I mustfinish--_that_, and go. "

"And where do you go, Irina Petrovna?" inquired Ivan, in the deep, calmvoice that suddenly bereft the woman of all her easy impertinence. 

Unquestionably, she flushed. "Do not ask me. There is a refuge that ismine for the asking--"

"Ah!--Well, about Joseph. I have been listening to his story as told bya man--my friend. But I wish also to hear it from you, who know itall. --How was it that you met?--And what has become of his real work: ofhis talent?"

Irina did not immediately reply. Picking a small, gold case from a heapof baubles at her side, she drew therefrom a cigarette, lighted it, withthat innate coquetry that was her bane, and believed that Ivan did notsee how the match trembled. After three puffs she suddenly turned hergreat eyes on the man, and smiled, joyously:

"You embarrassed me, monsieur! Of my meeting with Joseph, of our lifehere, I shall say nothing. His--fall, you may impute to me, wholly. Andyet--and yet, Ivan, in the face of all I have done, I still say to you, Joseph's own weakness would have killed him in the end. --You, who are agreat artist, who have labored through poverty, through injustice, through calumny, through the jealousy of friends and the libel ofenemies, and have conquered them all, you know well in your heart thatgreat ignorance, great vanity, great self-indulgence, belong not to thecharacters of the truly great. --Oh I, I, Irina, the outcast, know thatwell! Did I tempt _you_?--Those traits were Joseph's. I, who have lovedhim, say it. For love of me and of himself, he degraded his art. Forhimself, he has played and played and played, at the 'Masque, ' till evenI bade him stop. --Roulette--baccarat--trente et quarante:--all he has, is gone; and he has borrowed again and again from every one. --Oh bah!You, mon Prince, can do nothing with or for him. Leave these rooms. Return to your beautiful, calm life. This is not for you. --And as forme"--she suddenly flung the cigarette away and leaped to her feet--"I, also, am going!" And, throwing herself down beside the trunk, she beganto stuff the litter of the room into its capacious trays. 

In the dim light, Ivan saw not the unsteadiness of her hand; nor knewthat her heart was throbbing, wildly; nor that she was fighting back animpulse to crawl to him, miserably, on hands and knees, and beg for thegenerosity of his great heart. 

No, Ivan suspected nothing. He merely sat, rigid, silent, white-faced, tossing aside stub after stub of cigarettes, and gazing, vacantly, intothe spaces of past and future, trying to reconstruct the broken life ofthat starving boy whom he once had fed. 

The trunk was packed, and locked. Ivan did not look up. Not, indeed, until a tall woman, in a severely-cut cloth costume, entered the studiofrom the inner chamber bearing with her a lighted lamp, did he come backto himself, and offer to help her into the fur coat that hung over onearm. 

This act of courtesy accomplished, Ivan mechanically held out his hand. "You are leaving now?"

"Yes. "

"I shall wait here for--him. Do you know when he will come?"

"By seven, probably. We usually dine at that hour. "

"Thank you. --Good-bye. "

"Ivan!"--The word was a strange whisper. Ivan started. When his eyes methers, she was looking at him almost steadily. The next instant she haduttered a hoarse: "Good-bye!" and--was gone. 

He returned to his seat, wondering a little about her destination:surmising, indeed, the costly equipage that awaited her in the street, with its two men on the box, and its eager occupant. --Faugh! The reveriewas broken by the appearance of a man who came to take away the trunk. Her plans had been well laid. But--suppose, as she had imagined when heentered, _he_ had been Joseph, returned early? Well, she had doubtlesscarried things off high-handedly more than once. Why should she hesitatethis time?

Heart-sick, Ivan returned to his seat in the lamp-light. Odd that heshould have come hither on this day of crisis! Was it well, or ill, thatthis was so? Would Joseph, overwhelmed by his loss, provepliable?--Would his weakness be guided by another's reason?--Who couldtell? If strength is always consistent, weakness should be as oftenincalculable. 

The silent minutes crept along. Ivan, who, in the face of Nicholas'tale, had eaten little luncheon, began to grow faint for food. Seveno'clock had already been rung by the myriad bells of Moscow. Joseph didnot come. --The half-hour. --Eight. --Still no Joseph. Well, since he washere Ivan would wait the night through, if necessary. Another hour. Thewatcher's eyelids grew leaden; a great emptiness, a lonely dread, creptthrough him. He shivered in the growing chill of the room. At last, alittle before ten, there came the sound of shuffling steps in the hall, followed by a fumbling at the door, which presently swung back as Josephappeared on the threshold and paused, blinking at the light. 

It was at this moment that Ivan caught his most memorable glimpse of theyoung man, white-faced, unshorn, ill-clothed, his eyes bloodshot, hiswhole person shambling and loose-jointed: his long fingers working, tremulously. After a moment's anxious gaze he said, in a muffled voice:

"Irina!--Here, Irina!--I forgot about supper! I forgot I promised, thistime. But you should have seen! Eleven times during the hour, seven cameup!--I was playing your number. --How could any one have dreamed--Irina!"

"She is not here, " said Ivan, quietly, as he rose. 

"What!--Th--Thou!" Joseph straightened, but his jaw fell. 

Ivan made no reply. Presently the other shut the door and came forward, peering, eagerly. "Thou!" he muttered again, as if to himself. And then:"Ivan!--I saw him!"--Finally, aloud: "But Irina!--I want Irina, youknow. "

For answer, Ivan took the broken man by the arm and put him into achair. Then he said, very gently: "When did you eat last, Joseph?"

"Eat!" The upturned face, with its varnished eyes, gleamed ghostlike inthe yellow light. "This morning I--"

"You've been at the 'Masque' all day?"

"Oh, you see, I--you know she needs a great deal. --Sometimes I--I havehardly enough. --Perhaps, now, Ivan Mikhailovitch, you--would lend--"

"You must have some food, at once, " broke in Ivan, harshly. 

To his surprise, Joseph suddenly sprang to his feet, crying, angrily:"See here, what the devil are you doing here?--And where is Irina?--Iwant her! She knows me. --Where has she gone?"

"I don't know. "

"Don't--Rot! She's at a restaurant. I'm late. --Well, I'll wait. " Hestumbled backward into the chair, again; but Ivan stood close beforehim, his face now as white as Joseph's own. 

"Irina is not at a restaurant. She left these rooms early thisafternoon, and took her things with her. " And, as he spoke, Ivanstiffened his every muscle, and instinctively clinched his hands. 

For the moment, Joseph stared, stupidly. Then, all at once, he was upand at Ivan, lurching forward upon him, clutching, impotently, at histhroat, breathing gutturally, while he uttered inarticulate syllables inthe tongue of a serf. 

Ivan, even in his disgust at this revelation of the man's lowest self, his unquestionable bad blood, held him off, easily. In a moment or two, indeed, he had the half-drunken, wholly exhausted creature back in hischair, panting and helpless. 

Even now, it seemed, Joseph could meet his eyes. A long look passedbetween them, and Ivan perceived that the painter had come enough tohimself to try to analyze his position. He was, however, whollyunprepared when the fellow sprang at him again, this time with a wildshriek:

"Ah! You devil!--You devil!--It was you, you who have taken her fromme!--My God!--_You!_"

"Kashkarin, listen!--Be silent. --You can't hurt me. --Listen!"

There was too much quiet mastery in that voice for disobedience. Josephbecame suddenly quiet. 

"I came here this afternoon to see what was to be done for you. When Iarrived, Mademoiselle Patrovna was on the point of departure. She waswell aware that you were being ruined through her; and so she left you. She told me she should be cared for. --There is some one else. I let hergo, gladly, knowing it to be well for you. And now--"

The interruption this time was a burst of furious laughter, so loud, sofierce, that Ivan was appalled. Joseph, it seemed, had become a demon. When at last he spoke, it was only to repeat some of Ivan's words:"Aware she was ruining me!--_Was_!--Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha!--And you believed it'_well_' for me!--'_Well!_'--Ah-ha-ha-ha!--Thou hast wit, Ivan!"

Ivan's eyes, piercing the hideous mask that hid an agony, softened. Hewent impulsively forward, clasping Joseph's frail body in his own, strong arms. "Joseph, I do not mock you. I helped you once. You knowthat. Trust me again, then. You are not ruined. I have enough to payyour debts, ten times over. Leave the matter to me. Come to my house. There you shall rest, and wait for the strength that seems gone. With meit shall come back to you, the old beauty, the old power of art--"

Again was Joseph seized in the grasp of his haunting devils. Extricatinghimself violently from the kindly clasp, he turned away from Ivan andstood for a moment mute. When he again faced round, his face was allbut irrecognizable. And through the tirade that followed, this demoniaclook grew more and more horrible, till Ivan felt himself overwhelmed: asmuch by Joseph's appearance as by his words. For the moment, the man wasbeyond sanity. And from the depths of his bemired soul poured fragmentsof that understanding that still remained to him:

"Art!--Art. --You once preached it to me, starving. Art; purity;earnestness; sincerity:--the artist-angel you described for me! And nowto me you say 'rest, ' and 'wait!' Rest, for me, the accursed? Wait, tome, devil-ridden? I have descended, of my own free will, into hell. Forfive months I have wallowed there. Art and my soul I sold for the dirtthey would buy. They are gone. Can you buy them back? or the decency, honesty, cleanliness, _youth_, I pawned, for filth and more filth? I amsaturated with it. I reek with it. It embraces me with octopus arms. Every kopeck, every rouble, has gone to tighten that embrace. It is notto be loosened. I am hell-bound for eternity. And you speak to me of_art_!

"Leave me, Ivan Gregoriev, to my own. You can never know me. I hate younow. Irina has gone away. Having brought me to this, I disgust her!--Gothou, then, clean body, clean hands, clean heart!--Ach! Ihate--hate--_hate_!

"And there sits my devil--clothed in the scarlet. --Look on her!Look! Look, for the last time, before I pay her her wage ofdestruction!--So!--There!--And there!--And there!"

It was the canvas containing his first portrait of Irina. Seizing apalette-knife from a neighboring tray of brushes and paints, he stabbedthrice into the canvas, ripping the picture, wickedly, from top tobottom, from side to side. 

"Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha! You see her?--I damn her there as she has damnedme!--Now you have heard my love, Ivan Mikhailovitch! Now you know!--Go, then, out at that door, carrying your knowledge of me into the wideworld. --Take care!--Take care!--It is not only pictures I can kill!--Youdon't know me yet, I tell you. --Go, I command you! Go!--Go!"

Seizing Ivan's coat and cap from the chair on which they lay, Josephflung them into their owner's arms. Then for the last time the two facedeach other, the sane man gazing earnestly into the other's blazing eyes. Evidently Ivan reached his decision in that look; for, without more ado, he donned his fur garments, and then, without a word, left the room. 

 * * * * *

It was barely half-past eight o'clock next morning when Ivan remountedthe stairs leading to Joseph's rooms, expecting to find the madman sunkin the sleep of exhaustion. He found the door unlocked, and theroom--empty. Joseph was gone:--out into Moscow, into the cruelty of thefrozen city, penniless, friendless, perhaps still mad! Nor did he everreappear, in any of his old haunts. Search proved fruitless. Irina haddone her work thoroughly. Every effort failed to bring the wanderer upout of the dark unknown. Ivan, bitterly rebelling, tried, in his heart, to hope that that distant Polish hut of his youth knew him again:sheltered, in peaceful dissolution, one of the great talents of theage. 

CHAPTER XX

MADAME FÉODOREFF

It may be said that it was not until after the ending of Joseph's weaktragedy that Ivan passed into his third, and final, mental stage. As aboy, he had known very intimately the inner buoyancy of youth, hope, andfaith in the joy of life. After the marriage of Nathalie, and hissubsequent precipitation, had come those wild rebellions of the soul, the violent protestations, the young and petted cynicisms, that are theinevitable accompaniment of the inevitable hour of disenchantment. Thisphase, however great its length, must, nevertheless, resolve itself atlast into one of two others: the quiet complacency of a renewed butgentler optimism; or a cynicism tried, real, deep-rooted, unhappy butirresistible. Be this state a sign of weakness or of strength, it wasthe one to which Ivan felt himself driven, willy-nilly, by all the forceof his experience. From that doubt of complete disillusion, thatconfusion of thought and loss of all happy confidence which is one ofthe results of the long-continued bread-struggle wherein disinterestedphilosophy can have no part, Ivan had moved, by insensible stages, farinto the kingdom of the unredeemable pessimist. 

To him, looking ruefully back along the years of his man-struggle, itseemed as if each trial, each disappointment, had been built on avariation of a single theme. Of the several friendships that had beenhis, all, after running an uncertain course, had come to violent orunhappy ends. And in the grave of each was buried a little and a littlemore of his natural faith and optimism. And yet--not all! Onefriendship, the first, had lapsed naturally, through separation. Indeed, Ivan still sometimes heard from the companion of his first Petersburgdays--Vladimir de Windt. Had there, however, been no letters, he couldstill always have followed his comrade's track; for de Windt--havingleft the army many years since, to enter on a diplomatic career, hadbeen climbing, steadily, and was already, at thirty-five, on thethreshold of the Council chamber. Over this fact Ivan could unfeignedlyrejoice; for already Russia, high and low, was discussing the merits andthe probable future of this young man. 

But of the others, --that group of men, the two women, who had sat at thedoor of his soul's sanctuary--what of them? Nathalie, first: thenZaremba, Anton Rubinstein, Laroche his comrade of the Conservatoire, Ostrovsky his collaborator, Balakirev, Merelli, Joseph, finally, Irina, --her soul still flaunting its rags before the gaze of the world, while her brother and those student companions of her honest days andIvan's first success, labored in distant prison-mines, self-victims ofunsuccessful treason: what of these? Which one remained to him?--Ah!there were two: old Nicholas, the unswerving, the devoted; and Kashkine, who owed him nothing, who had given--was to give--so much! Why was itthat they counted so lightly in the scales against these others? Who cansay? who explain that perverseness of human nature which will not valuewhat it has, but must drop it by the way to stretch out unavailing handsfor the fleeting ungraspable? This, certainly, was what Ivan did; andhis face came in time so to show the bitterness of his heart, thatJoseph, rising stealthily from his unknown depth, dreaming of findinghelp from his once benefactor, twice beheld the depth of Ivan'shabitual frown, and stole away without making appeal to theheart-hungry man who now, year by year, labored alone in his desolatepalace. 

The years of 1873, 1874, and 1875 passed slowly, bringing rich harvestof Ivan's great gift to the music-world of Europe. Russia only wouldhave none of him; wherefore he, deeply resentful, held every individualof his race at bay, until, at length, an incident, dreamed of long agobut also long since despaired of, broke successfully into a solitudethat was becoming dangerous. 

On Wednesday October 15th, in the last-named year, Ivan, book in hand, sat idling over his _déjeuner_, when gray-headed Piotr entered, quivering with excitement, to announce that a great lady waited in thedrawing-room and would not be denied a sight of His Excellency. So, three minutes later, Ivan found himself face to face with the secretlady of his heart. 

"Nathalie!--Princess!"

"'Nathalie, ' please, dear cousin. --Ivan, I am in great trouble, and Ihave come to you for help. "

"Help!--Trouble!" Ivan's low voice faltered. "Ah!--Can I make it rightfor you?"

The woman before him shook her head, sadly. "No one can ever make itright, Ivan. "

"What is it, Nathalie?" In his secret mind, he was just murmuring hername, over and over again, and blessing the woe that had brought her tohim. 

"For the present I am here, in Moscow; and my children are with me. --Imight have sent for you sooner, by note, Ivan. I _ought_, I suppose. ButI waited too long, and so came myself!" And she looked at him, her lipssmiling, her troubled eyes full of anxiety. 

Even after all the years, Ivan read her well enough not to answer thatsmile. Instead, he led her, scarcely protesting, into the dining-room;despatched the amazed but delighted Piotr for fresh tea and something toeat; and, when they were alone, sat for a moment lost in contemplationof her, while she waited, wearily, for him to pick up the thread oftheir talk. 

Her appearance, charming to any other man, startled and momentarilysaddened Ivan. He marvelled, indeed, at the emotion roused in him by herface: the face that he had pictured as forever changeless, but which, henow perceived, time had dealt with more cruelly than with his own. Madame Féodoreff was, indeed, a woman sufficiently beautiful, sufficiently distinguished, to be looked at thrice in any assemblage. Yet her every feature, the exquisite, pearly skin, most of all the oncesparkling, now deeply-seeing eyes, spoke of a long and difficult dramaof life. 

These things passed through his mind as he gave his order and Piotr leftthe room. For some moments more he was silent. Then, rousing himself, almost unwillingly, from his contemplation, he spoke. 

"You should be able to guess, Nathalie, how much your coming means: howdeeply it touches me. To think that you should still haveconfidence!--How many years is it since the winter of your début?"

Though he asked it lightly, he saw the shiver that ran over the woman athis side. "We must not count years, " she said, softly. "Indeed, Ivan, now that I am here, I find it hard to explain my idea in coming. --I amalone in Moscow--virtually hiding. And I can tell you very little of myreason. --Still, you can guess, at least, that my marriage--hasbeen--unsuccessful. --I have my children. I adore them; yet I have lefttheir father, and so injured them forever. --That is about all I can tellyou. --Up--"

"Princess, I beg of you!--"

"No, let me finish, Ivan! Up to the time of my mother's death, I neverwholly realized the truth of affairs. --She managed, somehow, to shieldme. --During her last years, Ivan, she regretted my marriage more thanany act of her life. --Indeed, I think it was the one thoroughly cruelthing she ever did. --Since she went, I have been forced to understand:to face black truth. And so, when the time came that even my babies werebeginning to ask me questions about--incidents--and--and persons whofrequented _my house_, I _had_ to come away. I know how the worldregards a runaway wife; yet I believe that I am not universally blamed. I hope not. But, just now, it is impossible for me to face the world. Ihave been alone for some weeks. I came to you to-day just for--just forcompanionship, I suppose. "

As she paused, Ivan leaned forward and impetuously took her delicatelygloved hand into his firm clasp. But the light that glowed in his eyes, he wisely managed to conceal. "'Companionship, ' Nathalie?--Let us giveit a better term: 'Friendship!' Surely that is permissible now, betweenus. Believe me, anything that a man can do, I will do for you. You havetold me far more than I should have asked. --I can never take the placeof--of Madame Dravikine. But I can make you feel, perhaps, that theworld is not utterly lonely for you: that there is some one who is madehappier and better by your mere living presence. "

Towards the end, his tone had become slightly uncertain; and MadameFéodoreff, who was prepared for an emergency, and whose schooling in theworld had been thorough, hastily interposed. Moreover, as she began tospeak, old Piotr entered with an extemporaneous luncheon that did creditto a purely bachelor establishment. As he set the things down before theunexpected visitor, she, looking her host squarely in the eye, and witha manner friendly but quite without sentiment, observed: "You understandvery nicely, Ivan! That, without knowing it, was precisely what I cameto say. Friendship!--It is something that has never yet entered mylife: very probably through my own fault. "

Ivan's answer was a smile; for he had no special wish to take advantageof this opening for banalities. While the Princess ate, therefore, heplayed with his knife and fork, and they bandied the necessary phrasesof conventionality while the thoughts of both were busy with intimatematters. Already Ivan, high-hearted, knew that the long-worshipped imageof the young Nathalie was gone, forever, from the chapel of his mind;and that, already, in the empty niche, stood the shadow of another form:one less fairy-like, less bewitching; but more suited to the reverenceof reason, and worthier of the homage he found himself still so ready tooutpour. 

Indeed that first visit, self-restrained, brief, uneventful as it was, proved more momentous to both man and woman than either, beforehand, would have dreamed possible. Their early passion for each other bothbelieved to lie buried deep beneath the weight of years of separationand difference of occupation and environment. Vanity! The first hour ofreal reunion showed them both that the old feeling had been far fromdead: was, in truth, sleeping so lightly that a touch must rouse itagain. Four hours after Nathalie's departure, Ivan found himself at thepiano, pouring out his heart in such a burden of passionate melody ashad rarely rushed from him, even in his moments of inspiration. And thelong hours of the sleepless night served absolutely to loosen thefetters of his self-repression; for in the growing glory of the dawn, hewatched also the glorious resurrection of the one great love of hislife. Again, after many years, she lived in him: in every thought andhope and dream; not now as a child, potent, through ignorance, to woundhim past endurance; but as a woman, beautiful through time and sorrow, magnificent in the wreck of her woman's life. Still he knew well thatif love was to be his, it must remain for a long time under the guise offriendship. What he did not acknowledge to himself, was the fact thatall the world was to share something of this great and painful joy. Hewas still ruthless in the service of his single god. And this love, likeevery other factor of his life, must serve as food for his genius. Itwas Nathalie who had unconsciously turned him, protesting, to his work. It was to be through her also that he reached the height of his career:his perfection of maturity. For she was the inspiration of the "ToscaSymphony. "

If Ivan had suddenly risen from the depths to the heights, the cause ofhis change was also to know powerful emotion on his behalf. In the daysof her far-away youth, Nathalie Dravikine's affection for her cousin hadbeen as strong as any her school-girl nature was capable of. But when, after her hurried and loveless marriage, she was forced into, arevulsion of exquisite misery to a breadth of pain and repression thatforced her naturally light nature into incredible development, thecomparatively petty grief of Ivan's loss was forgotten. News of hisdisgrace reached her months after the fact, and but a few weeks beforethe birth of her first child, --now long since dead. And in her thenmorbid and unnatural condition, she had peevishly brushed all thought ofher cousin aside, accounting his unhappiness as small beside her own. 

Many years later, when the long period of her bitter schooling hadmoulded her into something far finer than her youth had promised; when, also, she had brought the art of concealment to its height ofperfection; the memory of her lost cousin's gallant and loyal devotionrecurred to her, together with the surmise that she had been the causeof his dismissal from the army, and the still more amazing fact that hewas now beginning to be recognized as an incalculable power in the worldof music. An interview with Vladimir de Windt confirmed her firstbelief; a symphony concert at the Conservatoire hall, fixed the second. And then, suddenly, she discovered that the man who had sought ruinbecause of her loss, and who had risen, pedestalled, from that ruin toanother and a greater personality, had won a place in her heart fromwhich he was not to be driven. 

For many years, now, his spoken name had never failed to stir hersecretly. Though, in the ordinary sense of the word, she was hardlymusical, her emotional nature had been too fully developed for her notto recognize the power that breathed through Ivan's tempestuous orfairy-like compositions. She began to make his work her peculiar study;and never a phrase of it but touched her deeply, strangely; in spite ofwhich, _mondaine_ that she must always be, it was not till she heardthat he had inherited the title and wealth of his father, that she begansentimentally to exalt her undefined feeling for him. 

Certainly, had it not been for his present social status, NathalieFéodoreff, even in the desolation that had followed the tragic climax ofher years of married martyrdom, would never have sought that firstmeeting with her cousin. Yet she was not to be judged upon that factalone. She was a devoted mother. She had been a faithful wife to a manwho had lowered his manhood to a level beneath that of the very beasts. She had borne with him through degradation, insult, once or twicephysical violence; and this not only because Russian orthodoxy gives noquarter to a rebellious wife, whatever the provocation. But when thattime arrived when her duty to her children and her duty to her wretchedhusband could no longer be compatible; when the two little girlsremaining to her out of five children, began to question therelationship between their governess and their father, Nathaliehesitated no longer. Seizing upon one of her husband's frequentabsences, she completely dissolved her establishment, told the furious, vile-tongued Frenchwoman quite calmly that her services were no longernecessary; and, that evening, with her children, two servants, and herpersonal effects, disappeared, absolutely, beyond the ken of Prince orpolice. 

In Moscow she took a small apartment, in a quiet quarter of the city;and there, masking her unhappiness behind an habitual languor, stroveheroically to readjust herself to life. Finally, as the result of amomentary, rebellious impulse, the period of her friendship with Ivanbegan. Neither of the two had been quite prepared for the after-effectsof their first quiet and commonplace meeting. Nevertheless when, on thefollowing Sunday, Ivan's card was brought to her in her little _salon_, he was not refused. His cousin greeted him placidly, and he made speedyfriends with the two quaint children whom he found with her, and whoserved thenceforward to keep the facts of her existence always inevidence; but who could not, unfortunately, prevent the existence ofsecret emotions, either in their mother or in the beloved new "uncle"who proved such a mine of sweetmeats and toys. 

After Ivan's first call, Nathalie found herself grappling with thequestion as to whether he must be absolutely dismissed, or merely heldat arm's-length. Into this discussion pride entered so largely that shepresently determined to do neither thing; but to conceal her ownimpotence beneath an armor of cousinliness. Thenceforth Ivan foundhimself, at first to his delight, later to his baffled chagrin, treatedwith an informal friendliness, a guileless intimacy, that perfectlyanswered its designer's purpose, though the helpless recipient chafed, rebelled, stayed away, suffered agonies of jealous rage, and finally, one blustery day, presented himself again in the _Gagarinesky_, wrappedin a manner impenetrably suave and bland. He had read her at last; andwas satisfied. Thus, their companionship entered upon its best period. Intellectually it was perfect. Sentimentally, though decorum was nevertransgressed, there came for each certain minutes of unavoidablerevelation that were eminently satisfactory to the other. And in timetheir intimacy reached a point where Ivan began actually to confidemusically in her:--a woman!

The twilight hours which he spent at the piano in her _salon_, while shelistened dreamily to his interpretations or improvisation, were thefinest they knew; and wrought a beautiful pediment for their temple toAmicitia. The difference in their natures served for each as astimulant. To Ivan, her sympathetic comments, frequent praise, rarecriticism, lacked absolutely nothing. Nathalie early perceived that shewas beholding a genius at work: a giant engaged upon labor toostupendous for irreverent contemplation. And from him and his music shegained the medicine her bruised heart and broken nerves most needed. ForIvan, in the growth of his great love for her, unconsciously brewed anelixir of power from which each drank, daily. So, by unavoidabledegrees, both were led unconsciously into a land from which few canemerge still solitary. Yet that was what the gods eventually decreed forthis hapless twain. 

The semi-religious festival of Christmas passed; and New Year's, thereal holiday of Europe, had arrived. Ivan, who had spent a week and sumsincredible, over gifts for the small Sophia and Katrisha, determinedalso, at the last moment, on his present for Nathalie, and then passedNew Year's eve alone in his own palace, in sleepless cogitation. 

Long before this time he realized that all the passion of his youth hadbeen renewed and increased a hundredfold: that he loved the PrincessFéodoreff as he had never loved Nathalie Dravikine. He was ready, nay, mad, to lay himself at her feet. He dreamed, by day and by night, of theonly feasible release for her: civil divorce; to be followed, asspeedily as might be, by a marriage of the same type with him. AlexisFéodoreff, he was convinced, would readily consent to this release; andwould offer no opposition to her plea. So far, all was easy enough. ButNathalie: what of her? Had _she_ considered the subject? How devoutlyorthodox was she? Had she divined his heart? Was her kindness directedtowards this possible end? Finally, dared he speak, on the morrow, whenso excellent an opening would be made by his gift to her: a diamondheart containing one priceless ruby in its centre?--Should he, bydaring, win to heaven? or should he be considered a libertine, and sothrust back to the dull purgatory whence he had so lately risen to her?Better risk nothing than lose all!--Whereby it may be seen that Ivan'sblood had cooled a little in the past fifteen years. 

Throughout the night he fluctuated; and morning found him still inhaggard doubt, hardly lessened when, at a most informal hour, hepresented himself at the house in the _Gagarinesky_, where, from the_concierge_, he gained the first hint of trouble. The old woman informedhim that, in the night, a message had arrived for madame up-stairs. Madame's maid had finally taken it in; and Yekaterina learned, at thedelivery of the morning milk, that the news had been very serious; andthat madame must shortly leave Moscow. --Whereupon the beginning oflamentations and curiosities--and Ivan out of earshot, flying up the twoflights of stairs which led to the lady of his desire. 

Ivan Veliki had sounded the first stroke of the tenth hour when PrinceGregoriev knocked upon his cousin's door; and the tenth vibration hadnot yet died upon the air when he paused in the doorway of thedrawing-room. 

Nathalie sat in the jut of the room, her back to the row of windows. Theheavy coronal of dark braids was piled above her white face with all itsusual, exquisite care. The transparent delicacy of her complexion wasaccentuated by her gown, which was of black, unrelieved save by a littleline of white at the throat. In her lap lay two or three envelopes, anopen telegram, and some legal-looking, red-sealed papers. 

Ivan gazed at the picture she made without speaking: his heart tremblingin his throat. In a moment or two, however, she lifted her eyes to his, and, without rising, motioned him to come closer. He went, at once, lifted her cold hand and kissed it, his holiday greetings long sinceforgotten. After a moment's gaze into her set face, he said, gently:

"You are in trouble, Nathalie _mia_?"

"Yes, Ivan. --No, Ivan!--I do not know. I cannot think at all, yet. --Alexei Alexandrovitch is dead, " she replied, rapidly, and withoutexpression. 

At the last words, Ivan felt himself struck as by an inward blow. Hestarted, violently, and echoed: "Dead!--Alexis dead!--Then, Nathalie, you--"

"I am widowed. "

"You are free!"

Their words were uttered almost simultaneously. Then followed a silence, pregnant, surcharged; on Ivan's part almost unpermissible. The PrincessFéodoreff lifted one hand to her brow and let it fall again. Ivan turnedand began rapidly to pace the room. The thing was so utterly unexpected, so entirely the one event that he had felt could never come about, thathe was as one dumb. The woman, watching him, dulled though her mind wasby the shock, divined, instinctively, something of his state of thought. Woman though she was, however, she was unprepared for his first action, which, as it were, threw a search-light upon the sole idea into whichthe confusion eventually resolved itself. 

Ceasing his walk he went swiftly to her, took her two hands, drew themprotectively to his breast, and said, huskily: "You are in greattrouble, Nathalie. --You are unhappy. --Is it--tell me!--is it grief for_him_?"

Before the clearness of his look, her own went down. A faint color creptinto her cheeks. For one moment she hesitated; but finally rose to hisown height of honesty. 

"No, Ivan, I cannot grieve for the man who deliberately wrecked myyouth, debased my thoughts, lowered me for years in my own eyes. --Do youexpect it?--It seems to me that, just now, I am feeling nothing. But Iknow already that I am _going_ to suffer. --I shall suffer remorse! I, who have been so proud of my long forbearance, shall suffer for theselast weeks as if I had left him years ago, without provocation!--He isdead; and I was not with him at the end. --He died in his bed. --They tellme it was his heart. He had had trouble with it before, and they hadwarned him against dissipation; for he was an old man. --But he heeded noone. --And he asked for me, at the end, and I was not there!--_That_ iswhat I shall suffer for. After all those long years of enduring, I lefthim to die alone. --Alone: my husband!"

"Nathalie!"

The Princess started at the note of agony in Ivan's voice. 

"Nathalie! You are not to suffer for that brute:--that brute who droveyou here--drove you to me!" Still retaining the two hands, which she hadnot tried to make him relinquish, he suddenly sank upon one knee beforeher, so bringing his head nearly on a level with her own. Then, oblivious of all things else, he began to pour out his heart to her:"Nathalie, that first time, years ago, that you came to Moscow--thetime of my mother's death, I forgot my heart-break over her, in you. Even then I loved you, utterly. You were the angel of all my wretchedcadet days. Then, years later, when I came to know you a little, my lovebecame the passion of a young man, and it finally swept me into a gulfof desolation. But no wrong could really come through you; and what thenseemed ruin, showed itself, in the end, the opportunity of my life. Itdrove me to what I could not have done alone. Through you I found mywork. 

"That is long ago, Nathalie; and I am not a young man now. But in all mylife there has been only one woman. --That fact came to me forcibly inthat first hour of your first visit to me here: the beginning of ourthrice-blessed companionship. 

"That beautiful dream is ended, now. No doubt, for a time, you mustleave this place. But it is insulting neither you nor the dishonoreddead whose wife you have not been for years, to tell you what you know:that you carry away with you my soul!--Nathalie, Princess of all mylife, will you not set forth leaving behind you the promise to comeback?--You shall wait as long as you will: two years, if it must be. Ihave endured far longer than that, and without hope. --Only let there bebetween us the dear knowledge that, in time, you are to accept for ahusband the man whose life shall thenceforward be at your leastcommand!"

His speech had been too rapid for interruption; and yet both voice andmanner were quiet and restrained. His every word was spoken with thesimplicity of unconscious ardor. And only from his eyes, which burnedher, and the almost painful clasping of her hands, could the Princesssurmise his emotion. 

Perhaps, had it been feasible, she would have stopped his speech. But, somehow, he had compelled a hearing. And nothing he had said eithershocked or repelled her. Yet she was enough affected by the death of theman who had done her every despite, but who had, nevertheless, taughther the mystery of life and given her her children, to be distressed atthis proposal in the first hours of her widowhood. 

Gently she put Ivan from her, and rose, moving towards the window, before which she stood, gazing down into the white street, while Ivanwaited, trembling with emotion. When she turned to him again, she hadreplaced the chains upon her feelings. 

"This afternoon I am leaving for Petersburg, " she said. "I must carryyour words away with me. --My impulse is to reject, instantly, everysuggestion of such a thing. --But your companionship in these last weekshas meant for me more than I can tell you now; and, in my empty home inPetersburg, I shall carefully consider the honor you have done me. --Yes, dear Ivan, it is an honor from any man; and from you a very great one. The woman whom you married would be fortunate, I know. But--I can onlypromise to write you, soon. Believe me, you shall not wait longer than Ican help. This is fair, I think. 

"And now, I can give you no more time to-day. --No, you can do nothing, thank you. Léonie for me, old Kasha for the children--they doeverything. --We leave the Petersburg station at five. Come then, if youwill, to say good-bye to the little girls. Our au revoir must be here. "

"Au revoir!" echoed Ivan, his voice gleaming. 

Madame Féodoreff smiled, rather sadly. "Ah, Ivan, whatever my answer toyou, tell me that I shall have your friendship still! It is the mostprecious thing that is left me, excepting my children. I cannot affordto lose you as my friend. --Promise!" and she held out her hand. 

He took it, quietly. "I promise, dear lady of my life. "

"Then, again--au revoir!"

"But soon. --_Soon!_"

He was gone; but, though she yielded to her impulse and ran to thewindow to look after him, he walked away without once turning his head. 

 * * * * *

That night, when he returned alone to his empty house, after bidding hisworld good-bye at the Petersburg station, he perceived at once that theMoscow around him was but a wilderness, and his great palace a prison. Thenceforward he was to exist only in the consciousness of waiting: hisfaith in her promise that she would torture him not a moment longer thanshe must. But, as the days passed, logic, calm, even reason, forsookhim, till no lover of twenty-one was ever in sorer plight than he. TrulyNathalie herself could hardly have guessed the depths to which she hadplunged this quiet and self-centred man. She had, nevertheless, theconsideration to keep her word. It was but eleven days after herdeparture, nine after the funeral of her husband, before Ivan foundhimself shut alone into that room where she had first greeted him, holding her answer in his visibly trembling hands. --A moment. --A longsigh. --It was open. 

"78 KERZONSKAIA, ST. PETERSBURG, "_Tuesday, January 9th_, 11 P. M. 

 "DEAR COUSIN:--Since our last talk together in far-away Moscow, the consciousness of you and of your question have been always with me. To-night I have been sitting here, alone in my boudoir, for two hours, trying, desperately, to _think_. I have wished to give myself fair opportunity for finding out my real mind; but, miserable thing that I am! the real _I_ will not respond. 

 "Ivan, my husband has been buried a week and a day! True, for years my tie to him was bondage. I have, to-night, a far tenderer feeling for you than I can remember ever having felt for him. Yet, in spite of this, I cannot bid you hope. I am widowed; and the first numbness of the unexpected shock has not left me yet. I can say to you truly, cousin, that I love you: that the comradeship we have known is something which I shall try to continue while we both live: though we are far beyond our twenties now, Ivan. But more than this, more than pure friendship, seems to me impossible. Marriage--even though it be with the love of my girlhood--is still half-terrible to me. I think that certain memories of my existence with Alexis can never be wiped away. 

 "Am I cruel, dear Ivan? Oh, I so want _not_ to be! But, indeed, I think I am not yet wholly myself. So I bid you remember that I have suffered very cruelly from the '_love_' of a man; and I pray you, for that reason, to try to forgive me when I tell you that friendship is all I can ever want now: that as a friend I shall write you; and as a friend _you_ must know, "Your affectionate, sorrowful, "NATHALIE D. F. "

There are men, perhaps, who would have read hope into this letter andhave clung to it, willy-nilly. Ivan was not of these. Self-deception wasnever a vice of his; and, from this hour, the soul of Nathalie Féodoreffstood revealed to him more clearly than to herself. 

Once through the letter he sat motionless, the black-bordered sheetcrushed tightly in his right hand. He had forgotten the paper on whichher words to him were traced. Perhaps he had forgotten the wordsthemselves. But the throbbing of his heart continued: the veins in histemples still stood out, like purple whip-cords. It was late in thenight before there appeared, in the dark room, the vision of hismother's angel-face gazing at him, her clear eyes filled with mingledlove and understanding; and midnight had long struck before that whichhe instinctively expected was finally given: when, like a diapason, crashing, _fortissimo_, through the dark, rolled the magnificent, despairing chords of the final theme of the great "Tosca Symphony"--the_motif_, the epitome, of his own, dark life. 

CHAPTER XXI

TOSCA REGNANT

During the weeks immediately succeeding this last repulse, Ivan sufferedas he had suffered in the early days of Nathalie's marriage. It was noteasy for him to comprehend why Madame Féodoreff's letter should affecthim so bitterly. He made all the familiar efforts: tried every resourceknown to him of old. They failed. Not only had his tranquillitydeparted; not only had his work been turned from joy to drudgery; notonly was the pleasant savor of his quiet existence gone; nay:physically, mentally, he felt himself sick, and in want. His brainplayed him false. His sleep deserted him. His carefully guardedexistence turned upon him, mocking. 

Ivan at last began fully to realize what the past three months had done:how, in them, all the old love-bitterness, all the accumulatedloneliness and hardship of his solitary years, piled together, had beentransmuted into a mighty hope, the destruction of which swept away hiscarefully-reared edifice of artificial content. Out of all the women inthe world, he had wanted, had asked for, in all his life, none butNathalie. But her he had needed, terribly; and she was gone: gone out ofhis yearning heart, and arms, and soul--for good!

It was now a long time since he had begun his reign in the house of hisfathers: that dreary house of evil name in which pure women had beenovercome as by some poison, some miasma of foul living, and, generationafter generation, had died there, down to his mother's day. This, formore than two centuries had been the tradition of that grewsome palace, till it was famed throughout the city for the sinister line of men whohad dwelt therein, and had finally died out with the last Prince. Ivan, when he took up his residence there so suddenly, had put behind him hismemories of the old-wife's tales, and his own boyhood experience. This, as he progressed farther and farther along the road of power, had becomeeasier daily until--a woman stepped in, and the power of Prince Ivanfaded and died. In the early days of his disappointment, he was beset byall the ghosts of his fathers. Himself once more a prey to that blackTosca that is the heritage of every thinking Russian, he yielded withoutresistance to thoughts and memories as morbid and as dreary as those onwhich his mother, years ago, had fed her dread disease. So, after a fewmidwinter weeks of brooding, lassitude, and sleepless fasting, hispersonal servants, there being no friend at hand to replace them, ventured to remonstrate with their master. Piotr was now as much hisdevoted slave as was old Sósha, who had recently retired from activeduty to the kitchen-corner, where his reminiscences and his pipe-smoketogether flavored that cheery room. Sósha had no hesitation in takingPiotr's lead, and begging the master either to bring home company toamuse him, or to change his abode to some more fashionable quarter ofthe city, whither all his dependants would happily follow him. 

To these simple appeals Ivan listened, certainly; but, bound down bythat cruel lassitude which is the direst symptom of chronic melancholy, he refused every suggestion, and left his servants to return to theirquarters, dismally shaking their gray heads over his mental state. 

So through the winter. But the flowing of spring-tide rouses the dullestto contemplate some possible change of routine. And when that blessedseason once more breathed upon White Russia, Ivan woke to the memory ofold desire. From his mother, who, as a girl, had run wild over the hugeBlashkov estates, Ivan inherited that intense love of nature withoutwhich an artist must be always maimed. This year, especially, he foundhimself daily dreaming of the perfumed nights and sweet-aired days ofthe country of his boyhood: his mother's favorite resort, at Klin, whither she had been wont to convey him in May, and whence she departed, tearfully, under heavy pressure, in October; though twice in her lifeshe had managed to spend the greater part of the winter there, in thewhite wilderness hateful to her lord. "Maidonovo" was a moderate-sizedhouse, set in the midst of twenty acres of land situated a half-milefrom the extremity of the village of Klin. A year after his wife's deathMichael Gregoriev had sold the place, which he had always detested. Ofit Ivan now dreamed, incessantly; till, late in April, he entered intonegotiations that were presently to electrify his household and thatpart of Moscow's population with whom he figured as something of apersonage. 

It was the twenty-eighth of the month when Piotr, after a two-hourcloseting with his master, flew to his fellows with astounding news. 

The great Gregoriev palace was, in less than a month, to pass out ofthe hands of the last of the family, and into the possession of thegovernment, by whom it was to be turned over to the Department ofPolice. Moreover--and Piotr's emphasis on the word brought a sharpstillness in place of the rising buzz of comment--instead of a place inMoscow, Monsieur le Prince had bought his mother's former country-houseat Klin, whither he intended to remove immediately, there to pass atleast the summer, retaining as many of his present household ascared to remain with him. (Here a smile, at the idea of any of thetwenty's leaving the service of a bachelor, a lover of solitude andsimplicity, who would sooner have struck himself than one of hisservants!)--_Finally_, the whole change was to be completed in two orthree days; and a week, at the outside, would see the new existencewell begun. --Whereupon Piotr, all his news given, descended from hisimaginary rostrum, as eager as his fellows to have a voice in theimpending discussion. 

 * * * * *

It is no very rare thing for the Russian May-day to wear an aspect ofJanuary. But May snow is, at least, a transient thing; and there areyears when the first day of the gentle month is such as no country wouldrepudiate. Nature did honor to her disciple; for the world was a gloryof young green and gold, as Ivan, bowed with memories, made his progressout of the present, along the white, country road to the house of thelong ago. 

Winter had ended ten days before; and Russia, with that marvellousrapidity with which she accomplishes all change, had already risen fromsnow-sheet and mud-bed, and stood negligéed in a robe of gauzy-green, all flower-sprigged and sun-flecked. Three days more, and the fruittrees, for which Klin is famous, would be bowers of pink and white. Andbehind the flying droschky, there actually arose a fine, white film ofdust! House doors stood open to the milky air; and Staroste and lonelyVillage Priest alike were at work in their respective gardens. 

Ivan, now emerged from his black, winter mood, was tremulous withemotion; and, as his vehicle left the village behind, his eyes rangedover the broad country-side, reading, as in a familiar book, each old, beloved character printed on the open page of the landscape seen lastduring the summer he had spent here alone, after his mother's death. 

When Ivan alighted at his own gate, Sósha stood there to welcome him andtake upon himself the customary haggle with the driver. Nor did the oldman, noting his master's face, so much as address a word to him whoseexpression he read with the sagacity of one trained to the task. HenceIvan, his heart overflowing, went at his own, lingering gait towardsthat open doorway wherein, it seemed, Sophia's slender form mustpresently appear. 

He entered the house alone, turning at once into the littlemorning-room, where he looked vaguely about for his mother'stambour-frame which was not in its place beside the window. Hither, aninstant later, came Piotr, announcing, respectfully:

"The large room above has been prepared for your Excellency. The trunksare all unpacked. --At what hour shall I serve the tea--and where?"

Ivan started, looked about him dazedly, and realized that he had noteaten since early morning, though the hour was now past four. Then hesaid, rather wearily: "Tea here, Piotr, in an hour. After that I willsee you and Sósha. Meantime, let me be left absolutely alone. I want togo over the whole house. See that I meet no one. "

"Your Excellency is obeyed. " And Piotr had bowed and was gone. 

Ivan flung hat, gloves and stick upon the table, and then looked slowlyround once more. --Twenty-one years since his mother had gazed on thesefamiliar walls?--Impossible! Two decades of other lives interveningbetween him and the summer in which sad-eyed Sophia had secretly watchedthe coming of her hideous Octopus of disease? Nay! He would not let thatthought endure. But every trace of intrusion must be put away: if, indeed, it had left a trace. At least the belongings of his mother, nowremoved, must come back. He should dwell here with her beside him, inhis heart, always!--But certainly this room, save for the tambour andscattered wools, was quite unchanged: roughly-tinted buff walls, polished floor, with its delicately faded Persian rug, heavy chairs andsofa, ay, the very spindle-legged table near the bay, were all here, forming the old ensemble. It was almost incredible. --But Ivan haddiscounted the penetration of those servants who, in the long ago, hadloved their lady as now they loved her son. 

With a heart violently throbbing, a throat painfully knotted under thestrain of associations long cherished in the inner sanctum of hismemory, Ivan passed slowly through the long, cold drawing-room towardsthe staircase at its farthest end, and so, slowly, upward. As of old, the slippery stairs were uncarpeted; and his heart jumped anew as hiseyes met the thing they sought: a small, round knot-hole, in a corner ofthe seventh step, which had been filled in with a piece of wood ratherdarker than the rest, and which, as a boy, he had been possessed to cutout with his knife, only to be inevitably caught at and punished aftereach attempt. 

At the head of the stairs still stood the great, oaken chest, the bottomdrawer of which had been dedicated to the use of his most precious toys. That was empty, now. He must not break the spell by opening it. So, witha smile that was an inaudible sigh, he passed on to his mother'sbedroom: that room in which, on a New Year's night now thirty-eightyears gone by, a lonely wife had prayed God for the boon of motherhood. 

The very shrine before which Sophia had knelt, bracket, ikon, and brasscandlestick, still hung on the far wall, beside the bed. Ivan's eyespaused at it, and he was seized by the impulse to speak to his motherfrom that spot. Repressing himself, however, he sat down beside a tableon which he leaned an elbow, supporting his head upon his hand. Presently his eyes drooped shut. The unwonted sweetness of the air, thelong, twining sun-shadows of late afternoon, the intense, countrystillness, all of them helped the oppression of memory, till graduallyhe began to feel himself enwrapped in a shimmering, elusive mist ofhalf-real dreams. 

He perceived that the windows were fast-shut, double-paned, their cracksstuffed with the customary winter moss. Still the raving wind camethrough: a freezing breath. Daylight was gone. In its place--was thissome pale moonbeam straying through the uncurtained window, to mingleits ghostly light with the flaring yellow flame of the gutteringcandle?--And that figure that crouched, dumbly, on the floor, beneaththe protective ikon? Who was she?--And who the other two who nowresolved themselves out of the creeping mist and glided towards thesleeping woman?--a tall and radiant personage, leading by the hand alittle child?--It seemed not strange:--neither new nor amazing. Ivanknew the gentle lady who had prayed: knew also the Majestic One whobrought the answer to that piteous prayer. But the child--theshadow-shape whose tiny hand was clasped in that of the DivineWoman?--Ah, _that_--

Ivan shuddered, started, and, by a violent effort, flung off theclinging vision. Old Sósha, standing in the doorway, was saying, in hisgentle, plaintive voice:

"The tea, your Excellency!--It is as you commanded. --You have journeyedfar and waited long!"

"_Waited!_--I commanded tea in an hour. It can't be five. "

"Pardon, your Excellency, the bells have rung six. "

Ivan sprang to his feet with an exclamation. Then, suddenly, he swayed, caught himself, by means of the table, and sank back in his chair with asuppressed groan. The old servitor ran forward, fear in his face; butIvan, smiling at him, waved him away:

"It is quite well with me, Sósha. --Go bring the samovar up here:--here, to my mother's room. "

 * * * * *

So, with less thought of Nathalie in his heart than he had known formany a long day, Ivan began his life at Klin: an existence which, barring one restless interval of travelling, was to continue till theend of material things came for him. He was not yet old in years. Theexperiences that had been given him were scarcely of a theatrical kind. Those which had gone deepest, and upon which his soul had fed itself, had been scarce visible to the world, could not have been surmised byhis closest friends. His scars were the scars of temperament: the resultof an abnormal capacity for feeling. The vividness of his imaginationheightened petty trials to a semblance of wanton cruelty. Impersonalmatters he unconsciously made his own. Echoes of the great_Weldschmerz_, coming to him from the void, vibrated their way throughhis nature till they emerged again, imprisoned in harmonies of hiscreating. 

This summer, for example, the first that he spent at Klin, brought himscarce one outward incident worthy of note; yet it was to him a timeoverflowing with events--of mind, and memory. To an outsider or a_mondaine_, the Maidonovo routine would have seemed monotonous to a vergeof imbecility. Ivan, ghost-haunted, found each minute of each daypregnant with its own suggestion: saw his life as a tapestry, the designof which was woven upon a background of surpassing natural beauty--theclimax and gradual _decrescendo_ of the year. He had emerged from thatlong period of semi-idleness in which he had been able to do no morethan refine a mass of half-finished work; and was now feeling a freshjoy in a renewed and strong-flowing power; an excitement in theevolving of new ideas. September found ready for the printer five newworks; the first of them and the biggest, his "Fifth Symphony, " the_andante_ of which must remain forever unrivalled, while the work as awhole can only be surpassed by its successor in the same form, Ivan'slast and greatest creation: the "Tosca Symphony. " Beside this he hadwritten the "D-minor Violin Concerto" for Brodsky; the "Liturgy ofJoseph of Arimathea, " for four voices with organ accompaniment; half adozen of the melodious songs that were his special delight: and, lastly, the little, one-act opera "Iris, " for which he had written both librettoand score, and which created a furore on its performance in Petersburg, the winter after his death. 

The months that produced this large amount of work were spent in a depthof solitude such as only Ivan would have dared to undergo. Nathalie'sletters, which grew more frequent as the days went by, and to which hefaithfully replied; two visits from Kashkine, one from Mily Balakirev, and half a dozen from Nicholas, who was to be daunted by no amount oftaciturnity, were the only incidents of the period. Balakirev, indeed, had brought with him a young protégé, one Rimsky-Korsakow, (since heardfrom, ) to worship at the shrine of Russia's Gregoriev; whereupon thathero, highly disgusted, behaved so boorishly that the chagrinedBalakirev refused Nicholas' next plea, and would not go again. Ivan'sone, regular recreation were his long, solitary walks through thecountry-side, disturbed only by the clamorings of children, whom he hadspoiled with kopecks, and whose chatterings interrupted his thoughts nomore than did the voices of squirrels and birds--from which latter, indeed, he got many an idea. 

These five-mile walks, with four hours in the morning and two in theevening at the piano, an hour or so spent in skimming over some of thescores in his vast musical library, considerable reading, especially atmeal-times, of Russian, French and English novelists and the Germanphilosophers, whom he approached worshipfully, formed the occupations ofhis quiet life during many years. And, as the first months passed, hebegan to realize that his painfully acquired philosophy of living wasdemonstrating its practicability in the many volumes of his dailyjournal. 

No artist, nor, indeed, any scholar or original thinker of temperament, can progress far in his chosen work without acquiring a certainphilosophic attitude of his own that makes for religion; though it be nomore than the result of orderly habits of thought: its premise gleanedmerely from a continual subconscious synthesis of the sum of personalexistence. The type of the synthesis matters no more than the form ofits result: mockery and atheism of Schopenhauer or von Hartmann; poeticillogicalities of Hegel; dizzy flights of Schelling; materialism ofLocke; idealism of Berkeley; magnificent transcendentalism of theimperial Kant;--they become one at last. Truth is one and indivisible;therefore it is the sincerity of thought, not its fashion, that matters. True, Ivan Gregoriev, musician by necessity, philosopher by instinctonly, left in the end little record of his answer to the riddle. Butthis was rather well than ill. For, from the very beginning, Ivan's"glimpse behind the veil" was distorted, clouded, smirched, by anunconquerable cynicism: a personal resentment and rebellion against theGod who stood forth as the acknowledged creator of the miserably unhappyrace of men. The eternal question:--if God be only Omnipotent Good, whythe existence of evil?--he asked in ever-growing bitterness, tillso-called altruism became to him a mockery; and he took a painfuldelight in twisting his wisdom into the most fantastic forms, which healso made the sport and butt of formal logic; knowing always, in hisown heart, the evil that was wrought in him by those bitter reflectionsthat formed the refuge of his idle hours. Ah! Had Nathalie but cared!

September was gone ere Ivan wrote the dedications of his fivenewly-finished works. And then, thinking of the men so remembered, herealized that they all happened, for the moment, to be in Moscow. Thereupon he suddenly decided to invite them to Maidonovo forforty-eight hours, and, during that time, to hold a manuscript festival, in which his and their unpublished works should be played each by itscomposer, and criticised by the listeners. 

An invitation from Ivan was not now a thing to be refused. Therefore theevening of October 10th found six men assembled round the samovar in thetransformed living-room of Ivan's home. For the time, the host hadthrown off his habitual air of grave reserve, and, responding to thefriendly and congenial atmosphere around him, expanded to a gayety, amagnetic boyishness, that fascinated as much as it amazed the four whoknew him as no others could; and sent Avélallement, a wealthy Germandilettante, whose acquaintance with the famous Russian consisted of along correspondence and a fanatical admiration of his work, back to hisnative Hamburg determined on bringing Ivan to Germany, in order that themost sentimental, hospitable and musical race in the world might come toknow, as he did, the great-hearted Russian, whose only possible faultwas that he had not been born on the other side of the frontier. 

That evening, and the day that followed, were more delightful than Ivanhad dared hope. Surrounded by those who were big enough to understandhim, (and, though he did not realize this, he was now generallyrecognized as too great a genius to be longer victimized by jealousy)he himself shone out with a kind of radiant optimism quite foreign tohis general humor. The new works were gone over, and praise, with thanksfor the dedications, given with a sincerity that was unmistakable. Finally, his _pièce de résistance_, the symphony, was played again andyet again; first by one musician and then by another, the rest hangingupon each note and chord and progression with the delighted appreciationof men who understood that they were hearing a masterpiece which was tobe reverenced by generations to come, and which was to bring honor toall Russian music. By the second evening Rubinstein, his kindly facebeaming with pleasure, was arranging the program of an extra concert inhis Vienna series to be devoted entirely to Ivan's works. Ivan promisedhim the symphony for its first performance there; and Brodsky agreed atonce to play the new _concerto_, the study of which he intended tobegin, from the manuscript, on the following Monday. 

It was perhaps the sharp and painful contrast of the incident thatclosed this holiday, which made it afterwards shine so brightly inIvan's memory: a memory to which, in later days, he was to turn againand again, as to the happiest hours of his professional life. Hissuccess might not have been really very great. --And yet, the pressure ofKashkine's hand upon his shoulder; the friendly light in Rubinstein'sfaded eyes, the painful hand-clasp of muscular Balakirev--surely thesethings showed that the old cabal against him had at last come to anatural end? Moreover the attitude of open admiration adopted both byBrodsky and Avélallement, both of whom lived entirely abroad, plainlybetrayed the esteem in which he was held in other lands. Yes; for onehour--perhaps the only one of his life--Ivan felt to the full theexaltation of success, of applause, of the intimate knowledge that, however great his praises, they were no more than his work deserved. Hewas a successful artist: his feet on one of the last steps of thatgreat, golden stairway, around the foot of which thronged suchstruggling crowds; the serene heights of which were so little trod. --Ay, it had been given him, his bright day! How could he complain when, ateleven o'clock on the second night, old Sósha entered the room andhanded a telegram to his master?

Brodsky and Balakirev were in the middle of a haunting melody of theSteppes, arranged by Mily himself, when the sharp exclamation of Ivanbrought a quick silence, and turned every eye towards him:

"I have a message here, my friends. --It is bad news. --I--I must--" hepassed his hand across his brow, and thought for a moment: "I must getto Moscow to-night, somehow. --A friend--a man, is dying there, in theCherémétiev Hospital. --You understand? You forgive me?--It is urgent Ishould reach him before the end. "

There was the natural chorus of sympathy, regrets, assurances ofunderstanding. Only Brodsky betrayed a touch of the curiosity which allfelt; for, even to those who knew him best, Ivan's life and connectionshad always had about them a suggestion of mystery which made his everyaffair an object of unwonted interest to those who knew him. But tonone--not even to Nicholas--did Ivan disclose the identity of the man, or the exact nature of the agitation that spoke of hidden grief. 

He made his preparations quietly; bade good-bye to the friends who, though they were to sleep at Maidonovo, would be gone before he couldreturn; and, taking the bag prepared for him by Sósha, hurried out tothe sleigh that awaited him. Seventy minutes after the arrival of themessage, the Petersburg mail thundered into Klin on its way to Moscow. Ivan, solitary midnight passenger, was put on board, together with themail-bags and registered express. 

During the two-hour ride through the roaring blackness, Ivan did notsleep, and scarcely moved. His mind was occupied in going over and overtwo scenes of the days before his succession: one, the afternoon onwhich a certain starving youth, fed and warmed by him, had told thestory of his struggle for an artistic education; the other, his finalinterview, two years later, with that same youth, soiled, then, in mindand body; sodden with vice; mentally rotten with the knowledge thereof:the fair god of his ideal dragged from its altar and sold, with all therest of his great heritage, for less than a mess of pottage. --Again, ashe neared the city, these memories were augmented by an anticipation:the imagined picture of the third and last interview he was destined tohave with the tragic boy. Ivan was to get his last glimpse into thatsoul to-night. He was going to one who, dying, had called to him fromthe depths: Joseph Kashkarin, the Pole. 

 * * * * *

Dawn had not yet risen. Moscow, wind-swept, dripping with wild bursts ofrain, its desolation augmented by the mournful shrieking of wind throughthe narrow streets, was shrouded in the intense darkness of the lasthour of the night, when Ivan at last dismounted from his droschky at thedoor of the great hospital given to the city by Count Cherémétiev. Hefound no difficulty in entering; for there is no moment of the day ornight when some wretched soul may not find a refuge there. 

At the same time, the "Prince" Gregoriev, together with a piece of gold, did serve to cut many yards from the red tape that impedes all progressin Russia. A brief explanation, two minutes' wait, the appearance of ayoung man garbed in spotless white, a walk up two flights of stairs andalong a chilly corridor, and Ivan found himself at last halting before aclosed door. Here the nurse turned to him saying, softly:

"We were obliged to remove him from the ward at noon to-day. We prefernot to allow deaths in the general rooms if we can avoid it. --Then too, early this evening, the man was suddenly paid for. "

"_Paid for!_--By whom?"

"A lady. We do not know the name. She refused to give it, and did notask to see the patient; but she left a considerable sum for him. "

"Why did you not send for me sooner?"

"He never mentioned your Excellency's name till this afternoon. And ofcourse we did not dream that you--you knew him. He has been consciousonly at intervals since the hemorrhage yesterday; and he is also underthe influence of opiates. "

"He is dying of--what?"

"Galloping consumption; and--" The man hesitated. 

"What?"

"Well, it is a complicated case. We think there must have been a touchof _delirium tremens_ just before he was brought in--a week ago. Alcohol, you see, is the best thing we know for consumption. If the casehadn't been aggravated by privation--hunger, exposure, want, --we mightpossibly have saved him, at least for the time. But I assure yourExcellency that everything has been done--"

"You think it absolutely impossible to save him _now_--if no expense isspared? I give you _carte-blanche_--"

"The man is dying, Prince Gregoriev. Only a miracle could help him now. "

There was a moment's silence before Ivan said, very softly: "Let us goin. "

The room was small, rather bare, but clean and well-warmed by the hugestove built into the wall, with half of it extending into the roombeyond. A second nurse was sitting in a chair beside a small table whichheld medicines and the night-lamp. This man rose as his successorentered, and, at the door, a word or two was spoken between them. Ivancaught the phrase: "No change. " Then he halted beside the iron bed andstood looking down on the motionless form of Joseph. 

Joseph!--Joseph Kashkarin, this bearded, hollow-eyed, gray-lipped man, with the spots of scarlet flaming from his projecting cheekbones, andthrowing the death-hue of the rest of the face into still more dreadfulprominence? Joseph's, that clawlike hand, with the broken, stained andshapeless nails, which once had wielded a brush that created thelaughing face of Irina Petrovna--the woman who had brought him down todeath? A great shudder seized upon Ivan; and, for an instant, he wasforced to turn away. Then the nurse brought him a chair; and he removedhis coat and hat and seated himself beside the cot, his face resolutelystraightened into an expressionless gravity. As he watched, the nurseadministered a hypodermic of strychnia, and then bathed the burning faceand hands with cool water. The task completed, the man turned to Ivan, saying, nonchalantly:

"The stimulant may pull him up, sir, for fifteen minutes, if you wish tospeak to him. But he's failing. He'll hardly linger to see the sun. "

In spite of himself Ivan betrayed something of the thrill that shotthrough him at these words. Till now he had scarcely realized that hewas actually to watch a man start upon that dread passage whichleads--none knoweth whither. He sat wrapped in solemn thought until, presently, the form beneath the blankets stirred, and Joseph began tocough:--a cough that shook and racked his emaciated frame as if it wouldtear flesh from bone. The nurse hurried to his side. But it was fiveminutes before the fit had ceased and the sick man, raised high upon hispillows, regained his breath and the strength to open his glitteringeyes, which fell at once upon Ivan. For a moment they stared, dazedly. Then a distorted smile softened the line of the pallid lips:

"_You!_--Then they did send--and you _came_! I'm not dreaming?" He spokein a whisper, as if to himself; but the words were distinct. 

"No, Joseph, I am here. --Joseph, why did you wait?--Why did you not cometo me, years ago?--I hunted so long! I never dreamed of leaving youlonger than for that one night. I have prayed that--" He broke off, suddenly, remembering that excitement might bring on the cough again. And indeed Joseph's eyes were already closed once more. 

Ivan waited, patiently, one, two, five minutes. Then the whisper cameagain: "That is a long time ago. But I remember why I didn't go to you:why I concealed myself. It was because I was ashamed. --We all wish tohide our dirty souls from every one--even from God, I suppose. Well, _you_ had been really good to me; and you were my ideal: the ideal of mybest self, and of my art. How could I go to you, when you must see thedepths I had got to. "

"But you are letting me see you now, and there is nothing dreadful init, " put in Ivan, gently. 

"Ah, now I _know_ I am dying. You cannot despise a man who is facingeternity. "

"I should not have despised you then, if--you had cared. --You see, Joseph, after all, we're brothers. Your God is also mine. We both wantedto serve Him in the same fashion; for all the arts are kin. And I knewhow great your talent was: how fine would be the expression of the bestin you. "

"Ah! That is it!" Joseph sat forward, eagerly, and his faint voicewavered. "'The expression of the best, '--that, Ivan Mikhailovitch, iswhat you tried to give me the chance for: what you always have doneyourself. You were moving steadily upward. I was always plunging fartherdown. --And it was my wilful choice. I think I know the truth now. Myservice of God was never freely given. It was not the best I could do:the finest work I was capable of, just for the sake of the work, and thehigh thoughts it brought, to me and to others. There were more sordidmotives. I wanted--first, fame: adulation from people; secondly, no, perhaps most of all, _money_. For of that I had never had enough forcommon necessities in all my life. So, even if there had been no--woman"(that word almost inaudibly, ) "I should not have done what you believedI could do. 

"Art!--the great sun-goddess, that shines afar! She it is that gives usthe gift: the chance to work. But she knows all our hearts; and shejudges our deeds honestly. That which she accepts of us, she lays at thefeet of the Most High. --Is it well?--Thou art Abel. Thine offering ofthe lamb is more pleasing than the first-fruits of the harvest. Onme, --Cain, God frowns, and the devil grins. --He is grinning through thewine. I hear his laugh amid the clink of the coin. --He is in red; and Iflaunt my mistress in his colors. Then we dance: first for sheerdelight, with the music. Then the whips come down on our shoulders, andwe go on. --Faster!--Higher!--Leap and prance, and watch the grinexpand. --Ah-h-h-h!--Are the shadows there deep enough, rich enough, doyou think? And are the lips too much a 'thread of scarlet'?--Oh theopalline lights in that cloud!--How to blend such colors on apalette?--Nature? She is mocking, too. 

"But oh, Irina, I see it now, at last! The dawn--the dawn is here. Thenight is gone. I have dreamed, I suppose: ugly dreams. --But they, too, are done with. --Look, my beloved, it is morning! The first sunbeamshines there--and is reflected in your dear eyes!" And, lifting his thinbody, arms wide-stretched, eyes a-glitter, Joseph made his last reachup, after the great sun-shaft he had sought so long:--reached, and so, with a faint, far cry of satisfaction, had it, and was gone. 

Ivan, feeling his way to the window, opened the curtains and looked outthrough blurred eyes upon the holy city. The dying man had, indeed, beheld the day. Yet no sunlight glittered upon the Kremlin domes; onlythe velvet blackness of the dark hour had melted, and given place to atwilight of sullen gray. Then, through the mind of Ivan, exhausted bythe emotions of a sleepless day and night, there shot a pang--not ofsorrow, but of deep, irresistible _envy_, for the man who had passedaway, out of the Russian autumn, into the glory of the everlastingsun-land. 

CHAPTER XXII

THE LION

Before Ivan left the hospital that morning, he had made all arrangementsand provided a generous check for Joseph's funeral. Then, utterlyexhausted, he drove to a quiet hotel, sent a telegram bidding Piotr joinhim with necessary clothes, and finally retired. He remained in the cityfor four days:--until the interment was over. During that time thereoccurred two incidents of which he never afterwards was heard to speak, but of which the remembrance never left him; for they eventually provedto be the end of his long and dramatic acquaintance with Irina PetrovnaLihnoff. 

For all the unspeakable heartlessness of her later career, thismany-sided woman showed deep emotion over the tragic end of the manwhose youth and career she had ruined. Ivan recognized the fact that, even had he not appeared, Joseph would have received every attention, every aid, while he lived; every honor after his death. And her firstvisit to Ivan was to beg that he would allow her to reimburse him, atleast for the funeral just ended. Ivan's refusal was unalterable. Norwas his feeling of repugnance towards her softened, either by thisincident, or by her later well-acted but over-theatrical appeal to hispity, his former affection for her, for the possible restoration of hisconsideration, even though entire forgiveness for the irrevocable pastshould be impossible. Ivan unfortunately read her too well. Did he doher an injustice when he said to himself, bitterly, that PrinceGregoriev was worth an attempt which would not have been wasted on Ivanthe composer?

It was noon on the fourteenth day of the month when Ivan re-entered thelonely house at Klin, whence he was practically not to emerge for fivelong years. 

In the years between the October of 1879 and that of 1884, he performedthe hardest labor of his career. His life was one of Spartan simplicity;nor, though about him Russia fainted beneath the terrible blows ofnihilist knouts, did he once lift his head to catch so much as an echoof the furore. Unlike the majority of his fellow-countrymen, he tooklittle interest in the tempestuous history of the period. Still, theevent of March 13, 1881, did affect him powerfully enough to produce themost beautiful of all requiem masses: one worthy of the martyrdom itcommemorated. For the Liberator met the base reward of his long andarduous struggle to help his people as nobly as had his great Americanpredecessor, who, sixteen years before, had also fallen by a traitor'shand. Yet it is said that none who had known him doubted, as they laidthe shattered form of Alexander down, for the last time, on the iron cotof his soldier's room in the great Winter Palace, that the sigh of thedying Czar was no confession of pain, but rather one of relief at thisswift solution of his unsolvable problem. 

It was two years before the third of that royal name dared don his heavycrown; and when that was done, it was Loris Melikov who became Czar. But, though the secret societies might shriek and rave of the necessarydoom of the double tyrant to be downed, the people themselves had tireda little of the everlasting howls of bomb-thrower and assassin; andquieter years succeeded those of Russia's greatest shame. 

Ivan, from his hermitage, took some part in the coronation festival;for from his hand came the Triumphal March, and the great "Victory"overture, played in the Kremlin Square by an orchestra of one hundredand seventy pieces, augmented by bells and cannon. 

This was, however, one of the works that Ivan never heard. At the timeof its first performance he refused the invitation to conduct it, anddid not so much as think of going to Moscow to hear it played. He was ina very different mood from one of triumph; for there had come upon himthe bitter grief of Nicholas Rubinstein's death. For two years the oldman had faded, visibly. During the summer of 1881, he had spent muchtime at Maidonovo, where he helped Ivan with the final polishing of hislast opera, the famous "Boris Telekin. " That autumn, all the old circleconspired together to keep him in the country, where Ivan longed to tendhim as a son. But the old man, dominant to the last, insisted onreturning to town and resuming his work at the Conservatoire. In theFebruary of 1883 he actually went to Paris, to help Anton and Davidoffprepare for their great festival there. The journey, however, fulfilledKashkine's bitter prophecy. Nicholas died in the French capital on theevening of March 11th; and Ivan, struck to the heart, crept yet closerinto the solitude and isolation of Klin, where, for three months, heyielded himself to Tosca and opium, till a second catastrophe in theRussian musical world was averted only by Kashkine, who routed out hisfriend and forcibly insisted on beginning rehearsals for "BorisTelekin"; which opera saw its _première_ in November; and became thesensation of the season. 

This one was the last of Gregoriev's operas. He had already expended toomuch time on a form unsuited to his talent; and when "Boris" left hishands perfected, he completely lost interest in it, and began at once todevote himself to his unnumbered symphony, the "Æneid"; one of thegreatest of musical epics, and well worthy of the poem whence it hadrisen. The fruit of the winter of 1883 and 1884, included also thetoo-popular "Nathalie" dances, (where, for once, Ivan over-melodized);the "Cinderella" ballet; and his symphonic poem "Dream of Italy. " Thesecompleted, he sank into a state of torpor from which nothing seemed torouse him. Overwork had shorn him alike of vitality and of theimagination which had become as the breath of life to him. And the brieftone-poem "Hypatia, " forced after a fortnight's visit in October fromMadame Féodoreff and her daughters, is the driest, most hopelesslyacademic, of his works. 

Nathalie's departure, however, seemed to break the spell of hisdreariness. During the following six weeks he was frequently seen inMoscow and seemed to cling to the companionship of Kashkine; who, in ameasure, began to replace Rubinstein with him. In December cameAvélallement, acknowledged envoy from the five greatest Germanorchestras, begging Monsieur Gregoriev to consent to a tour of theorchestra cities of Germany, where he should conduct programs of his ownworks. To the amazement of the Moscow circle, Ivan received thisproposition with something like enthusiasm. Before Christmas he badegood-bye to Russia for an indefinite period; for, the German tour over, he was determined to spend a summer in Switzerland, and follow theautumn down into that Italy of his dreams which he had never seen. 

"I have spent too many years in this gray land, Constantine. I ambeginning to feel the grayness. My whole soul is yearning for thesun. --I have grown narrow, and stern, and stiff, mentally and bodily. Imust expand: must seek out men once more: and countries and peoples thatare not ours. --I long for the contrasts of Africa, of Egypt; of theburning desert, with skies of fiery blue. --I bid good-bye to Russia. Time shall lead me whither it will!"

Kashkine, gazing at him thoughtfully, felt a sudden chill of doubt creepinto his heart. The time for his biography was drawing near. 

 * * * * *

In mid-December, "Prince" Gregoriev, (the title being the finest ofadvertisements, ) escorted by Monsieur Avélallement, and attended by astately retinue of servants, arrived in Hamburg, where his tour began. His amazement at the ovations constantly given him, was naïve; for itseemed that Ivan was never to realize the extent of his reputation. Butfanatical adulation, following in the streets, constant cranings of theneck from the populace every time he appeared in public, presently beganto make him miserable. He was finding fame rather an unwieldy burden. Indeed, he had begun seriously to regret his contract, when he learnedthat, on a certain evening, both Edvard Grieg and Johannes Brahms, whohad travelled from their respective Norway and Austria to meet him, wereto sup with him and his host after occupying a box at the last of hisHamburg concerts. 

That supper-party gave a bad quarter of an hour to Madame Avélallement, the hostess: a woman of supreme tact, but whom three great artists badefair to overwhelm. As they seated themselves at table Brahms, who hadbeen in a brown study, suddenly proffered the company an extemporaneouscriticism of Ivan's music, which he tore into miscroscopic bits, andflung upon the winds of sarcasm; after which he perorated elaboratelyupon his own power and the perfect academic accuracy of his style. 

When he had reached his final period, the silence was awe-inspiring. Avélallement, his wife, even Grieg, who was an enthusiastic admirer ofIvan's work, sat dumb with apprehension, quite oblivious of the factthat Ivan, appreciating the solemnity of the occasion, was silent onlybecause he was struggling with hardly repressible laughter. He haddiminished this to a smile, however, before he helped himselfbountifully to wiener-schnitzel, and remarked, with an air of anxiousdeference:

"It is a privilege to have heard your views, Herr Professor. In my youthI, too, was a worshipper of the mathematical cult. I should doubtlesshave compressed myself into that mould had it been possible. But alas!My stubborn inner self would not permit. --After all, each to his own. Tome, imagination: the great, melancholy harmonies of the infiniteSteppes. To you, your counterpoint, your fugue, the infallible, unquestionable sequence of one-two-three. Let us not quarrel, then, overthe inevitable. "

Brahms frowned. But alas! for the moment, his mouth was full. And MadameAvélallement, breathing a prayer of thanks and relief to Ivan, hadseized her instant and turned the conversation to safer paths. Somehours later the two masters parted, in perfect amicability. But it is tobe noted that they never met again. 

The dour criticism of the rigid classicist was almost the only adverseword spoken of Ivan throughout his triumphal tour. To be sure, it wasfrequently said that his conducting was by no means equal to hiscomposing: but that was a truth which could have hurt only had it beenturned round. Ivan laughed many a time over his unconquerable terror ofdaïs and baton; and had not the orchestras he conducted been perfectlydrilled in his programs before his coming, he might more than once havecome to grief. But it was noticeable that wherever Ivan came intopersonal contact with the journalists, no praise was afterwards too highfor him. For the magnetism of his personality had increased with theyears; and, added to the absence of any conceit in his manner, it madehim an object of adulation that drove him into frequent fits of contrarytaciturnity. 

However, the long years of loneliness and unremitting labor proved anexcellent foundation for this little period of relaxation. Also, as histour continued, he was kept in a constant state of surprise at thenumber of celebrated musicians who came from flattering distances tohear his concerts and shake his hand. Grieg and Brahms were the vanguardof a distinguished throng: men representing every school, and of everytype of ability; from the veteran Carl Goldmark, idol of his following, to a very young man, by name Richard Strauss, concerning whose immaturebut highly individual compositions, Herr Brahms had already workedhimself into many a classical fury in the pages of his favorite musicaljournal; though more than one great artist--among them Ivan, --believedthat wondrous messages were to come from the pen of this youth whoalready dallied, in such magnificent unconcern, with certainawe-inspiring transgressions of classical laws, augmented and diminishedto a breathless degree!

It was nearing March, and the German tour was verging on its close, whenKashkine came from Petersburg, at Ivan's earnest request, to make one ofthe party invited, by Frau Cosima, to spend a week at the home of Wagnerin Bayreuth. It was with a little reluctance that Gregoriev entered thissanctum of the great magician's world. None who knew intimately Ivan'swork and that of the creator of the music-drama, could easily comprehendthe lack of sympathy between these two men whose music was of so muchthe same type. Perhaps the similarity rose from very different sources. Certainly the effects produced, however much alike in power and indistinction, had originated in minds bearing so little resemblance toeach other, that neither could see himself reflected in hiscontemporary. Indeed, as Wagner adored, and yearned to imitate, Beethoven, his diametrical opposite, so Ivan, tempestuous iconoclast, pored, year after year, over Mozart, deeply deploring his inability toimitate the simple, wearisome, weakly-flowing syrup of obviousness, which constitutes the secret of that master's popularity. So the twogreat men, each of whom must be reverenced by all the members of theother's following, found in each other, through the insistence of humannature, ficklest of contrary jades, none of the greatness but all of thefaults. 

Happily, however, there proved to be no reason for Ivan's hesitancy overthe invitation of Wagner's remarkable wife. His visit, of which manyhours were spent in the opera-house, where rehearsals for the summer'sfestival were going busily forward, proved far too interesting torequire any polite pretence. Ivan took his leave of the widow, (who hasdone so much to augment the fame of her husband), with expressions ofsincere regard and regret, adding, involuntarily, his satisfaction thatthis stay was to form his final impression of musical Germany. --For, three days later, Monsieur Gregoriev and his suite arrived in Paris:home of a very different musical cult. 

Here a new group--one no less distinguished than that of their Germanbrethren, --awaited the Russian star. Aged Gounod, Messrs. Saint-Saëns, Massenet, and Bizet, with Bemberg, Vidal and Duparc the song-writers, together with a little group of the younger school, d'Indy, Charpentierand their set, were gathered together to prepare a festival for PrinceGregoriev, showering on him attentions of every kind; and laboringtirelessly to convince him of their admiration and their "sympatheticappreciation. " No blunt comment or criticism here! All was smoothly, exquisitely polished: urbanely, beautifully French. But within a week ortwo Kashkine noted that Ivan was turning inward again towards himselfand his habitual solitude. And he knew that presently these complacentfellows would be sticking themselves on the spikes of a chestnut-burr ofmoroseness, _brusquerie_, and blunt refusals to have anything to do withmusic and musicians. 

What to do? As the days went on and his fears were fulfilled, Kashkinebrought himself a dozen times to the verge of remonstrance, of pleading, of explanation; but, each time he opened his lips to speak on thatsubject, his courage failed, and he retreated hurriedly to safer topics. It was odd that this gentle-natured man, so easily assailable ingeneral, should prove so unapproachable on the subject of personalexpediency. Even Kashkine, already Ivan's Boswell, a man unselfishlyeager that his friend should leave behind him a trail of goldenadmiration, dared not make the suggestion that it were better to moveon, merely because he so dreaded the inevitable quiet glance and thedirect, unequivocal: "Why?"

Happily, however, Constantine's secret anxiety was soon ended. Oneafternoon, as the two friends sat together in the _salon_ of Ivan'ssuite, the Prince called Piotr to him, ordered him to arrange a farewelldinner for his friends on the following evening, and to be ready toleave, on the succeeding morning, for Nice, where they would spend thecarnival: Lent falling very late this year. 

The events of the ensuing months contain no musical history of any note. Italy, still arrogant over her florid successes of the fifties, hadnothing but ridicule for the robust northern style which, to the earsaccustomed to simple melody, accompanied by the tum-ti-tum ofguitar-notes, that lightest dessert of the musical feast, was as thehowling of demons drowning the songs of an angel-choir. Ivan, progressing slowly southward towards the Eternal City, found his nameeverywhere unknown; so that he was obliged to depend for comfortablerooms and ready service solely on his title. In Rome, to be sure, thescore of "Boris Teleken" was to be seen in a window or two, side by sidewith those of "Lohengrin" or "Tannhäuser. " And there the society ofwhich Leoncavallo was president, gave him a dinner, at which theconversation turned principally on the beauties of the Italian climateand the glories of her historic past. 

These things did not, however, wound that professional vanity of whichIvan possessed so infinitesimal an amount. Never was man more thoroughlyinoculated by _amor Italiæ_ than Gregoriev. During the first weeks ofhis stay in Rome, guide-books and histories of the city were never outof his hands; and he took up his pen only to write the promised weeklyletter to his cousin. Nor, as the spring advanced, and the tides of theRoman populace, driven before the hot blast of the sirocco, began toroll towards Frascati and the hills, would Ivan follow them. On thecontrary, he seemed to glory in the increasing heat of the uncloudedsun; and, when he had sent from him, one by one, every member of hisparty save Piotr and Piotr's son, young Ivan, he began to prepare for amore reckless journey, southward. While his anxious but obedient retinueproceeded to Florence to prepare for him a winter abode, this madman, attended by a courier and his two servants, whom neither expostulationnor threat could drive from his side, set out for Naples, enroute--_horror incredibilis_, for Sicily!

During July and August Kashkine, staying, in a condition of enragedresignation, in Berne, daily awaited a telegram announcing Ivan's mortalillness or death. Instead, however, he merely received frequentepistles from the subject of his fears, written in increasing ecstasy;till finally, in the first week of September, came the climax. In a notedated from Heaven (a place called, by the vulgar, Taormina), there came, at the end of the exclamation points, one or two rational sentences ofinformation. It seemed that, upon the completion of his "SicilianFantasia, " Ivan intended returning, by degrees, to the north, reachingFlorence about November 1st. But he did not forget to add thatit would be a voluntary plunge from the skies to purgatory. --Forwell indeed was Sicily named the "Smile of God!" And as forRussia--Moscow--Petersburg--well! popular mistake had incrediblyconceived the infernal regions hot instead of cold; for who on thebeautiful earth could ever be unhappy while the sun, visible presentmentof the Deity, moved unobstructed through the turquoise vault ofItaly?--Italy!--melody embodied: harmony made visible: Mozartparaphrased: Kingdom into which all artists must seek entrance;fairy-land come true!

Kashkine read his letter with relief, with resentment, finally, withlaughter. But Ivan's earnest invitation to him to spend the winter inFlorence could not be accepted. He had already been absent far too long. Russia claimed him. And thus, when, at last, in the first days of themelancholy month, Ivan arrived at the gray capital of Tuscany where hewas to make his temporary home, no friendly faces save those of hisservants were at hand to welcome him. 

Probably no city in all the world possesses so powerful an attractionfor so many people of so many nations as does this grim stronghold ofMedici and Borgia. Its society, like that of most Italian cities, islargely cosmopolitan. Its different "colonies" intermingle, however, with the greatest friendliness; and among these "Prince" Gregoriev waseffusively received. It was less than a month before he was given tounderstand that, though a fine dilettantism in any of the arts is acharming fad, a professional career for a Prince with a fortune like hiswas not to be seriously considered for one moment. To the surprise evenof Piotr, this attitude amused rather than angered Ivan; and, hissummer's work polished and sent away, he smiled in his sleeve andurbanely donned his new garb, determined to play the part assigned himtill _ennui_ should tear away domino and mask. 

By the time he arrived the "season" was already in a vigorous infancy. Daily, in the late afternoon, the Cascine became an international mêléeof magnificent equipages and Parisian toilettes. Then, the drive over, those Florentine leaders who owned palaces, and their foreign imitatorswho contented themselves with a "_Mezzanine_, " seated themselves atwell-provided tea-tables and entertained a regularly flowing throng oftea-drinking, scandal-mongering women, accompanied by a circle of men ofsome interest and distinction. In the evening, Florence did still more. By this time, the _salons_ were suffocating and airless. Yet there werefew nights in the week when, somewhere, the sober reception was notheightened to a ball, sometimes impromptu, more often formallyprearranged. Morning found the indefatigable leisure world scatteredthrough one or another of the great galleries, where, before themasterpieces of a by-gone Italy, they recounted all the questionableincidents of the preceding day. And never a woman but could tell thelength of time that Countess X---- had remained in the conservatory; orthe variety of rouge used by that preposterous Mademoiselle C----, whosemother should really adopt spectacles. 

For a matter of four or five weeks Ivan, still living in the glamour ofthis land of the death-in-life, permitted himself to float, passively, round and round the fashionable whirlpool. It was a wonder he enduredso long; for, from, the first, he was lionized unbearably, and was soontaken up by the very cream of Florentine society: (a little cliquereally difficult for foreigners to penetrate); till behold! the oldPrincipessa, head of the lofty house of Contarini, reached a stage ofliking and familiarity where she did not hesitate to tap her Prince onthe arm with her fan, commanding his escort during her formal progressthrough her sparsely furnished but highly exclusive _salons_. 

Signs of awakening were, however, plainly visible in Ivan's mannerbefore the day of the accident which revolutionized his winter. 

Gregoriev, like every other visitor to the city, had observed, andfrequently stared at, a certain person who constantly haunted the bestof the galleries and resorts--Pitti, Uffizi, Academia, the shop ofVecellio on Lung' Arno, and, finally, the Cascine. She was a woman ofrather odd aspect, somewhere near middle age, who was always followed bya maid, but otherwise went alone, unspoken to. Despite her completeisolation, she was unquestionably a person of breeding, probably also, considering the appointments of her carriage, of wealth. More than onceit had been on Ivan's tongue to ask about her; but the question wasstill unspoken when she was thrown forcibly upon his recognition. It wasearly upon a December afternoon; and Ivan was walking alone on thedeserted driveway, his mind engrossed with a recalcitrant theme, when hewas broke in upon by the sudden noise of pounding hoofs, rattlingwheels, then, after three or four breathless seconds, a scream, interrupted by the thud of a falling horse, the snapping of a shaft, andthe plunging of the second animal, who halted, trembling, a few yardsaway. 

But half aware of what he did, Ivan rushed to the horse, caught him bythe bridle and held him fast, while the coachmen, and a workman or twowho had come up, busied themselves over the fallen beast, which, thoughbruised and bleeding, had broken no bones, and was declared able tofinish the journey back to the apartment of "madame. "

A few seconds later Ivan found himself standing bare-headed in thepresence of the lonely woman of his imagination, who, herself pale, evidently shaken, and coughing violently, was, nevertheless, between hergasps, vigorously remonstrating with her terrified and hysterical maid. Astonished at the force demonstrated by one whom he now perceived to beseriously ill, Ivan accepted an eagerly proffered seat opposite thewomen, and accompanied them back, across the river, into the city. 

The drive was memorable. On its termination Ivan, fascinated by certainobservations, accepted further hospitality, and sat for half an hourover a samovar in a beautifully furnished little _salon_; finally sayingau revoir not only with his lips but with his mind. 

That evening, for next to the last time, a Florentine _salon_ rang oncemore with the name of Alexandrine Alexiévna Nikitenko, widow of thePrince of the name who was the younger brother of the head of one of themost famous families in Russia. The story of the runaway and thedénouement which had brought two such well-known compatriots together, was in every one's mouth. Ivan was besieged with questions, to which hisreplies were so unsatisfactory that a general appeal was made to theauthority of the Principessa Contarini. To her Ivan gave a brief accountof the event, and then himself became an eager interlocutor. His firsttriple question also ended, for some time, his remarks. And when he hadbeen fully answered, his mind was too full for further utterance. 

"Who is this Princess Nikitenko? Why is she in Florence? And why is shenot here to-night?"

A storm of comment, ejaculation, exclamations of wonder! Ivan closed hisears; and opened them again only for the young Contessa Contarini, who, at a nod from her mother-in-law, undertook enlightenment. Then--onehalf-hour in the dim-lit corner of an inner boudoir, --and Ivan foundhimself at last _au courant_ of the great scandal of 1869, which, wonderful to relate, was still, after nearly eighteen years, almost asinteresting as ever: the persistent presence of its heroine almost asastonishing as in the first days of her ostracism. 

It was in the autumn of the year 1867, when the reign of the Liberatorwas in the fulness of its fame, that a certain scandal _intime_ began, in St. Petersburg, to divide interest with the still engrossing topic ofthe freed serfs. Every one in society took sides, for or against, in thequarrel and separation of the young Prince and Princess Nikitenko: bothof whom had been, since their marriage, high in the graces of theGrand-Ducal circle, and leaders of the fastest set in the capital. Whenthe trouble between them became noticeable, gossip ran fast and furious;partly for the reason that no human being seemed to understand justwhere the cause of the difficulty lay. Whispered mention of theGrand-Duke Constantine, madcap-libertine, hero of a thousand escapades, tended in no way to lessen the interest, though of evidence there seemednone. The climax proved to be a fitting one, however; for, early inMarch, the Princess, with two maids, a valet, her entire wardrobe, andall save the hereditary jewels, disappeared from the ken of humankind. 

Six weeks later she was heard from in Florence, where she remained inseclusion during the summer, but in the autumn opened a _salon_ which, in point of brilliance, elegance, and distinction, eclipsed every otherin the Tuscan capital. 

The young Princess was a woman of remarkable education, and tremendousgifts. --So much was always admitted. --Her beauty was a moot point: her_chic_, never! She threw herself eagerly into the study of those artswhich have made modern Italy what it is; and she rapidly gathered abouther the most talented young men in that part of the country. In theJanuary of 1869 this company was signally augmented by the arrival ofone Vittorio Lodi, a young Roman tenor; over whose voice--one of thosenatural organs found only in that land of the sun--Florence speedilywent mad. 

Up to the middle of the ensuing February, the prestige of the Nikitenkosteadily increased in brilliance. Then, suddenly, as it were in a night, the shadows began to gather round her. Whence the first rumor rose, noneever knew. But it ran round the _salons_, down the Cascine, through thetown, like a circle of fire. Immediately the watch was set: andimmediately the reports began to come in. 

Yes, unquestionably it was true. The Princess and Lodi were constantlytogether. In the morning he was unfailingly to be found in her boudoir, practising, perhaps, his rôle or his songs for the evening. In theafternoon he had a place in her victoria, and they paid their callstogether, or he sat beside her at her own tea-table. Every evening thathe was free Lodi spent in her _salon_. And on those evenings when hesang, people found Madame Nikitenko "not at home till twelve. "

Soon, inevitably, the world began to draw a little away from the woman, while it courted the man. Immediately, to the general indignation, shewithdrew herself, positively, from the world; and Vittorio refused mostof his invitations. Then, as the season drooped and died, and springswept up from the south, the beautiful Alexandrine became invisible toevery eye but that of the devoted tenor. 

Thenceforth it is a stupid tale. "For her sins, " the Russian lady madea long retreat in a neighboring convent; whence she did not emerge untilNovember was sweeping the leaves down the Cascine, and the world wasonce more at home. When she returned to the city of her former triumph, it was to find every door shut against her, every face averted as shepassed. As for the Lodi, he was now in Milan, at La Scala, at aphenomenal salary. 

That, behold, was eighteen years ago! Still, inexplicably, Alexandrinereturned, winter after winter, to the city of her loneliness. Therecontinued to be stories of regular visits to the convent outside thewalls, where, in the odor of sanctity, was growing up a little girl withNikitenko eyes of purple-blue, and the darkest of waving, Italian hair. None had ever heard of any attempt either at divorce or atreconciliation on the part of the husband, now a man high in thecouncils of the Reactionary party. Nor was scandal ever again able tocouple any name with that of the solitary woman, upon whom a change hadbeen gradually creeping. Many had heard her cough, and perceived thenature of it. A few charitable souls would have relaxed towards her now, had she herself permitted it; but her door remained obstinately closedagainst all women and every man save her compatriot, Ivan. He, withoutapparent effort, broke in at once upon her solitude. So, indeed, had theyoung Contessa prophesied, in sprightly conclusion. Then, yawning behindher fan, she laughed, and commanded the sombre-eyed Russian to take herback to the dining-room and her own circle of adorers. 

Ivan himself finished the evening properly. But, as he walked out intothe night chill, his heart and brain alike were overflowing withinterest, with pity, nay, with a kind of fellow-feeling, for this womanwhose bravery was of the greatest known to humanity. Even to-night hehad looked into the hearts of women of her own former class; and heshuddered at their conscienceless inconsistency. For the moment, probably, he forgot the sage maxim concerning "safety in numbers. " Thewoman who yields herself to a single great passion and will neither hideit nor cap it with another, is surely lost in the world of to-day--oryesterday!

 * * * * *

Two weeks. Two little weeks; and the new intrigue of AlexandrineAlexiévna Nikitenko, now in her forty-first year, was the greatsubject of the Florentine world. For, at the dusty wheels of herbattered chariot, she dragged a new captive. --And such an one!--Theirlion: _the_ lion!--The nobleman of the hour, and a genius toboot!--Incredible. --Nauseating. Finally, resignation; and covert murmursabout green bay-trees. All doors, of course, were still open to PrinceGregoriev. He should have every opportunity for repentance. Only, apparently, Prince Gregoriev cared naught for their high consideration;and seemed to have taken a vow to darken only one doorway in the citybeside his own: that hitherto lonely entrance to the apartment of MadameNikitenko!

As for Ivan, people might chatter and beckon as they would, his interestin them was gone. On the other hand, he had become completely absorbedin the personality of this other, once heart and centre of the gayestset in civilized society; now dwelling in the fastnesses of an isolationsuch as he himself, connoisseur of solitude, had not dreamed of. For inall existence there can be no such isolation as that of the woman castout from among her kind, yet too much one of them to endure thecompanionship of others. At the same time, since no brave fight canleave either man or woman as it found them, so, through the dreary yearsof her disgrace, Alexandrine Nikitenko, buoyed up by her unbreakablepride, had gathered from her blackened fields no small harvest ofbroad-mindedness, philosophy, and courage. The Alexandrine of old, acknowledged priestess of frivolity, was not a tenth so well worthknowing as the faded, jaded woman, long since numbed to the pain ofslights and insults, who had, through the long years, persistently madeher dwelling-place in the city of her downfall. She was no saint:affected no martyr's pose: had never, since her departure from theconvent within whose walls she left her babe, sought the consolation ofreligion. Child of the world, in a sense, she must always be; but shewas also a woman, softened far more than she herself dreamed. Cynicismwas the cloak of her defence; but Ivan, early in their acquaintance, unconsciously folded it back, and beheld the beautiful robe beneath. Thenceforward, throughout the last months of his stay in Italy, theirfriendship increased by leaps and bounds. The woman began to feel thatat last the mysterious Arbiter of human fate had lifted His iron hand, and was looking upon her with forgiveness written in merciful eyes. 

On the very day after his first dramatic meeting with the Princess, Ivanhad written to Nathalie, in Petersburg, to gather, at first-hand, thedetails of the Russian part of the Nikitenko drama. Princess Féodoreffreplied with her habitual promptness; but the story contained in herletter was rather disappointing. Apparently Florence knew as much asPetersburg. The deserted husband, who had climbed far up the ladder ofdiplomacy, was celebrated for his morose reticence about his personalaffairs. Nathalie's words were almost an exact repetition of those ofthe little Contessa. Ivan was obliged to wait until, one day, he learnedthe whole story from the lips of its heroine herself, who told it to himunasked. 

Early in their friendship, as soon, indeed, as she perceived that heranged himself absolutely with her, Ivan learned how scrupulouslyhonest Madame Nikitenko was. With manlike exactness she gave him tounderstand that friendship with him grown purely out of liking would bea godsend to her; but of kindness from compassion she would have none. Cut and gibe had little power to sting. Pity infuriated her. Gallantlyshe was fighting a disease which every day gained a little ground; andwhich she well knew to be mortal. But her very maid, the one person whomshe deeply loved, dared no more to look at her with understanding of herpain, than she would have bared her back voluntarily to the knout. When, therefore, Ivan, adopting the Princess' own tone, told her frankly thatshe alone had power to keep away from him that _ennui_ which mustotherwise drive him out of Florence, she proceeded to tell him openlywhich subjects must thenceforth remain closed between them. Of these, the principal was her illness, which should, before Eastertide, free herforever from the eyes of the gaping world. 

She had had her first hemorrhage in October, immediately after herreturn from Trouville, where she spent her summers. Christmas Daybrought the second--a severe one, which was stopped barely in time. After that followed a long and peaceful interlude: weeks which Ivanafterwards looked back on with wonder; for the glamour of herpersonality, her magnetism, remained about that memory till the day ofhis death. His intercourse with her combined the best features ofmasculine comradeship and feminine Platonism before the mawkish stage isreached. She had the ability, so rare in men, to draw out the best thatwas in her companion. And Ivan would often find himself displayingqualities of eloquence and brilliancy of which he had never suspectedthe existence. But the woman never revealed to him their source. Sheherself was more than rewarded by the originality and the depth of theideas which she merely taught him to express. For, though rhetoric maybe cultivated, the most wonderful of tacticians cannot put individualideas into the brains of a pupil. 

Late February found the world, even down to Ivan's own servants, in astate of hot resentment against the Prince's desertion of his class. Ivan, however, cared not a whit. Daily he grew more absorbed: daily hefound some newly admirable thing about her in whom he had reawakened thedesire and the power to attract. True, their intercourse was purelyintellectual. Yet Ivan had long ago perceived, even in the midst ofwreck and disease, what this woman must have been in the heyday of herindiscretion; and he realized how helpless he should have been in herhands twenty years before. It is possible that, in time, the physicalmight have come to life in him. He might have forgotten the years, theemaciation, even the rouge and the careless efforts at concealing grayhairs with badly-put-on dye. All this, perhaps, in time. But, well orill, fate had determined, long before, that this, her one truefriendship, was to be but episodic. It was the prologue to a dramaundreamed of as yet; the last act of which was to take place many yearsafter the apparent end, now so near at hand. 

Upon the morning of March 15th, a soft and sunny day of the treacherousItalian spring, Ivan, presenting himself at the familiar door, wasinformed that Princess Nikitenko was indisposed, and begged him toexcuse her till the morrow. Thus the wording of the message, whichproduced no more effect than a little disappointment. Ivan loiteredabout the streets for an hour, and then suddenly decided to go up toFiesole and spend his day upon the pleasant height that overlooks the"smokeless city" and the valley of the winding Arno. As he rode up, andup, through the sunshine, past fields just touched with the first, faint, exquisite green, a slow intoxication began to tingle through hisveins; and lo! the creative instinct came trembling through him onceagain. 

From that moment, time ceased. The hours passed dreamwise. And, at thefalling of the day, when the blood-splashed glory of the western sky wasbalanced in the east by the soft radiance of the low-swinging moon, hislatest inspiration swelled towards its culmination. Long and long he satalone on the little terrace before the gray, stone church, his mindwandering through space to the accompaniment of wondrous harmonies, himself oblivious of time and men. 

It was after one o'clock when at last he reached his apartment andentered the antechamber where, to his astonishment, stood Piotr, anxietywritten on his wrinkled face. As the door shut behind Ivan, and hestepped into the light of the hanging lantern, Piotr started forward, crying:

"Excellency!--At last!"

"Who else could it have been?--What are you waiting for?"

"It might have been one of Madame Nikitenko's men. --At four thisafternoon her major-domo came saying that the Princess is believed to bedying. She--"

"Good God!--_Dying!_"

"There was a hemorrhage early in the morning; and--"

"She has sent for me?"

"They have come three times, Excellency; but I could not reach you. Ihad no idea where you--"

Ivan cut him short with a nod, clapped on his hat again, and ranhurriedly out into the peaceful, moonlit night. 

Fifteen minutes later he was standing at the door of her apartment. Hehad not yet knocked; for his heart was beating, tumultuously, and heknew that he was afraid of the word that might greet him. Still--everywindow visible from below had been ablaze. Surely it could not havehappened--yet. 

He knocked, quietly, at last; and, after a little wait, was admitted tothe antechamber by a person who was strange to him. This was a younggirl, sixteen or seventeen years old, her head crowned by a coronal ofheavy braids; her eyes, of a deep, purplish tint, rimmed with jet-blacklashes, exact replicas of the Princess' own. Meeting those eyes, Ivangave a sudden, comprehensive start. Then he said, a little confusedly:

"My name is Gregoriev. I understand that the Princess Nikitenko sent forme some hours ago. I received the message only within the lasthalf-hour. Can you tell me if she is easier?"

The girl shook her head, slowly. She was very quiet, but seemed dazed. "No. It is impossible that my mother can live. I came at six o'clock. She saw me, and knew me, then. The priest is with her now; and theSignor Dottore is waiting, in the _sala_. Please to come in, Eccellenze. If she should be able, after receiving absolution and the unction, she--she may see you, monsignor. --Ecco!"

Speaking in a low, wonderfully rich voice, Vittoria Lodi led the wayinto the familiar little _salon_, where a young man, known to most ofthe foreign colony in Florence, sat reading a medical paper. At Ivan'sentrance the Englishman rose, and the two talked in whispers, the doctorgiving Ivan a résumé of this last seizure: the fearful hemorrhage whichhad continued for half an hour, and had started up again at intervalsthroughout the day; and the marvellous vitality which had upheld her, even though her body was nearly bloodless, and her two lungs almostsolidly filled. 

As he finished speaking, Dr. Tremont looked at his watch. "A quarter totwo. --She may possibly hold out till daylight. But from now on thevitality ebbs, and it is more than likely that she will go, quietly, atany moment. --I trust you can see her, Prince. But I hardly dareinterrupt the priest, who came to her at her special request. "

"Certainly not. My great regret is that, not dreaming the attack wasserious, I left town for the day. --I shall never forgive myself. "

A few words more of reassurance and sorrow, and then the two men seatedthemselves, the doctor returning to his paper, while Ivan sank into anarm-chair, and stared at the fire that burned in the tiny grate. Vittoria, thoroughly Italian in her habits, had withdrawn from this, andcrouched on a little tabouret, leaning forward to rest her elbows on achair in front of her, her chin propped upon her palms. The silence wasabsolute. The light of lamp and fire mingled and cast flickering shadowsand fingers of light into the dark recesses of the antechamber. The airwas tainted with the smell of iodine, carbolic, and various antiseptics;but the door leading into the Princess' bedroom was closed, and theportière also drawn across it. Young Tremont, whose thoughts hadwandered from his reading, guessed rightly that Ivan's mind was fixed onwhat was passing beyond that door. Of the meditations of the girl, thedaughter of his patient, who had arrived in the afternoon in the companyof the priest now absolving the Princess, he was not so sure. And, as hethought, he began unconsciously to study her slender figure andhalf-hidden face. 

How beautiful--how _very_ beautiful--she was! Ah! _Was_ it beauty? Wasit not rather a kind of _chic diablerie_, that is so much moreattractive, so much more dangerous, than mere perfection of feature andproportion?--Good Heavens! What a destiny, too, for such a personality!The mother dying; the father long since lost in the dreary throng offorgotten failures; not a relation in the world who could possiblyacknowledge her left-handed relationship to one of the most powerfulfamilies in Europe:--what was left her but the veil? Instinctively heperceived that she must be intended for this. And yet, to put _that_creature into a convent! Set the Venus de Milo in a cathedralcrypt!--What sort of nun would she make, this child of temperament andunholy passion? _Could_ they manage to keep her consecrated to the hushof prayer, the eventless, endless routine of the mechanical religion ofher order?

Again and again these thoughts revolved through the young man's brain;but he did not note that Ivan's gaze was fixed on Vittoria with the sameexpression; that his own thoughts were echoed in Gregoriev's mind. Ivan, indeed, was undergoing rather a startling dream, or hallucination, orwaking-vision:--call it what one might. 

Up around him, blotting out all the room save the little space whereVittoria sat, there rose a silvery white mist wherein she was framed. Then, gradually, her seated form faded from sight and reappeared again, changed in costume, and in attitude. And again she faded and reappeared, and again, and yet once more. He saw her in many pictures, in familiarplaces, in the company of persons known to him in the long ago. She wasin Russia, in Petersburg. De Windt, not now young, his temples silvered, his eyes grown weary, was at her side. He was succeeded by others, menand women of exalted rank, many of them seeming oddly familiar to Ivan, who sat entranced, watching and wondering at the vividness of the dream. And while he gazed down the strange future of this girl, he seemed torealize, intangibly, that she whom he watched was in some way bound upwith his own fate: connected with him by some powerful chain ofcircumstance. 

The pictures, continuing, began to grow hazy. Little by little hissensations became less acute. He was yielding to the influence ofintense fatigue. Tremont saw his head droop forward to his breast, andhis eyes close. Darkness descended. Oblivion trembled over him. Then, suddenly, there was a creak, a movement, the sound of moaning. The mistsdropped away. Tremont and the girl sprang to their feet; for the door ofthe Princess' room had opened and the priest emerged. 

On the father's white face were traces of emotion. His right hand wasuplifted, two of his fingers stretched out in benediction. As he spoke, his old voice trembled:

"Let us give thanks to God for His mercy. A sinful soul, repentant andshriven, has been gathered home. "

Vittoria, with a low cry, fell upon her knees. Ivan, gone deathly white, stepped forward. 

"The Princess Nikitenko is dead?" he asked, dully. 

"In the odor of sanctity, my son. "

 * * * * *

In one brief hour, the shattered illusion of these last weeks of Ivan'sItalian existence had crumbled utterly away. As one walks in someunhappy dream, he endured the double ceremonies of funeral and burial. Agreat crowd was present at the first of these, in the Santo Espirito;and their eyes were glued neither on coffin nor on priest, but every oneupon the crape-shrouded figure of a girl, who knelt between Ivan andMadame Nikitenko's heart-broken maid, Marie Latour. Next day the greatsubject of the _salons_ was this girl's identity, and the reason for thetears which every one declared had flowed so copiously from the purpleeyes that might have been stolen from the dead woman who lay upon thehigh, violet-strewn catafalque, surrounded by a ring of twinklinglights. Yet no one in that eagerly sacrilegious throng had the luck toperceive the most dramatic figure in the church: the shabbily dressed, middle-aged man who, hidden in the shadow of a chapel-pillar, stoodwatching his daughter, her escort, and the throng of familiar people whohad once received him, the outcast, as one of themselves. --EvenGregoriev never suspected this last touch to the finished story. And, had he known it, it could in no way have lightened the weight that layon his heart when, upon his return to his lonely rooms, he called Piotrto him, in the twilight, and spoke to the man who was afraid to show thejoy caused by his master's wearily-spoken command. 

"In two days, Piotr, we shall leave for Russia. --Make things ready; andcome to me for the necessary money. --Great God! How hideous the worldcan be!"

CHAPTER XXIII

THE HERMIT

The issue of the Moscow _Journal_ for March 26, 1887, announced thereturn of Prince Ivan Gregoriev to Russia after a thirty-month absenceabroad; adding that he was in Moscow for a few days only, beforeproceeding to his country-place of Maidonovo, near Klin. As a matter offact, Ivan, after a railway journey of sixty hours, arrived in Moscow onthe evening of one day, and remained at the Slaviansky Bazaar until theafternoon of the next. During this brief period, he was besieged byvisitors of every description, from the barest acquaintances, to menlike Balakirev and Ostrovsky; and, to the general chagrin, all werealike refused. Ivan was in his blackest mood. When, three hours beforethe departure of the Klin train, Piotr, taking his life in his hands, did admit Kashkine, it was half an hour before that rarest ofdiplomatists could bring the gleam of one faint smile across his oldfriend's face. In his memoirs the admirable Constantine has left apicture of Gregoriev as he was at this period--in his forty-eighth year:

"A figure lean, not very tall, giving the dual impression of wiryfortitude, and a delicacy that was rather _spiritual_ than physical, Gregoriev's body formed a marked contrast to his face--at sight ofwhich, on the day of his return, I confess to having been shocked, sochanged had it become since my last view of it. From black, with aslight silvering only at the temples, his hair and beard were now almostpure white. The lines of care in his face had deepened incredibly. Theskin had something of that parchment look that I had supposed to be thespecial mark of the recluse; but Ivan told me he had been a good dealout-of-doors in the last months. Without asking, I perceived at oncethat he was under his special morbid scourge; and when I learned that heintended retiring to Klin for a period of complete isolation, I was lessastonished than dismayed. I think I had even a momentary presentimentthat from this retirement he was destined never to emerge; though I knewthat he was still some years removed from his fiftieth birthday. However, with Ivan Mikhailovitch, time was never a thing to beconsidered. He was a man of eternity. "

Into their two hours together on that last Moscow day, the friendscrowded much important conversation. Ivan unfolded his plans for thefuture; and discussed those manuscripts he had brought back, and whichhe afterwards intrusted to Kashkine to be delivered to his publishers. Immediately upon the first printing, they were to be sent to the MusicalSociety, to be passed or rejected for the next season's concert series. This business finished, Ivan plunged into an impulsive account of thebizarre history of his last months in Florence. But when he had reacheda half-way point, he as suddenly halted; and, Piotr a moment laterannouncing that the carriage waited to drive him to his train, Ivan badehis friend a hurried farewell. Kashkine only learned the end of the talethat interested him so deeply, some fourteen months later. 

Once more, as on the first day of his possession, Ivan reached hishermitage in the late afternoon of a spring day. But this home-comingwas not like the first; for, among the little throng of servantsgathered in the hall to meet their Prince, one face was missing. Afterhasty greetings, Ivan, with a sudden sense of the truth, askedhaltingly for the old servitor whom he had sent back to Russia, ninemonths before, from Naples. The reply, anticipated by but one moment, was a great shock to him. Old Sósha had been buried yesterday; his lastwords being a greeting to the master he had so longed to see again. --AndIvan might have been present at the funeral of this dearly-loved oldman!--But he made no rebuke; for he knew that the humility of these poorcreatures would never have permitted them to disturb his pleasure forone of themselves. 

It was, perhaps, only morbidness that Ivan should have allowed the deathof Sósha, a man of eighty-four, to affect him as it did. Yet thefollowing weeks taught him that all his recent gloomy meditations andself-analyses had had in them an element of affectation incompatiblewith real grief. Was it not real grief, then, that he was suffering now?For weeks he lived in the blackness that was horrible to those whowatched him. And finally Piotr, who dared anything for his master, sent, secretly, for Kashkine--whom he believed endowed with miraculous powerswherever his Prince was concerned. But for once Kashkine's presenceseemed powerless to rouse the composer from his lassitude: a feat whichwas eventually accomplished by one who knew him more intimately than anyman. 

It was now many years since his cousin and true companion first began tomake her deeply affectionate study of Ivan's moods. In May, according toa former custom, Nathalie came down to Maidonovo, unaccompanied by herdaughters. And Kashkine, after watching her during one day and night, retreated, gallantly leaving the field to her. It was one of the fewtimes on which she came alone to Ivan's home; and her excuse for the actwas one newly characteristic of her:

"My dear Ivan, I am forty-four years old: a safe age, if ever woman isto attain to one. I now, therefore, insist upon the comfort of personalfreedom. It is the one compensation permitted for the loss of the youthwhich can make freedom dangerous. "

Ivan's reply to the theory was a smile. For neither by him nor byherself could the graceful, beautifully groomed, _chic_ little womanpossibly have been regarded as she chose to describe herself. At thesame time, it would have been a person utterly beyond the pale who wouldhave admitted the possibility of impropriety in the behavior of thePrincess Féodoreff, one of the greatest ladies of Petersburg. She hadlong since recovered any ground lost during the few months of herseparation from her dissolute Prince. And within the last eighteenmonths rather a signal honor had been offered her in the intimatefriendship of the Grand-Duchess Catharine:--most irreproachable, unapproachable, and, at the same time, most popular, of the imperialwomen of Russia. Perhaps her friendship with this Princess was the moregenuine and the more truly sympathetic in that, as she was well aware, her own history and that of her Imperial Highness bore many points ofresemblance. For the great-granddaughter of Constantine the Abdicatorwas the wife of one of the most dissolute of the Grand-Dukes, whoseabuses of manhood no ingenuity of his proud wife was able to conceal. Hence Nathalie, herself so intimately acquainted with this poignant formof suffering, was just now very full of her friendship with thebeautiful Princess; and she poured into Ivan's half-listening ears allthat she knew of this exquisite woman, married at seventeen, left alonein her cold and unapproachable state, to learn all the dire details of astate marriage: and now mother of a son who, in very boyhood, wasalready believed to be gazing with interest down the path his father hadtrod. Even Nathalie herself could not guess the anguish with which thissecret dread had already filled the mother's heart; nor the struggleshe was prepared to make before her motherhood should be dishonored asher wifehood had always been. 

In time the story of this Princess, told, day by day, in semi-accidentalsnatches, laid hold of Ivan's imagination. By degrees he began to enterinto the life that was being laid bare before him with all the intimateunderstanding that is part of the Creator's gift. For many weeks afterthe departure of his cousin, indeed, Ivan mused upon the subject of theroyal lady, dowered, apparently, with every enviable possession ofwealth and power, and yet one of the most truly unfortunate ofhumankind. The immediate result of this was the writing of the "ThreeStudies, " unnamed, so long left in manuscript, and so persistentlymisunderstood. It is only, indeed, within the last five years that theyhave been discovered to bear a direct relationship to the last threemovements of his greatest symphony. To-day they form the treasure ofthat small but expanding cult who have been so mocked at for theirserious study of the connection between various harmonies and the mentalemotions, from which has grown the dream of establishing a perfectmusical law. 

It was the spring of 1889 before Ivan at last began to work seriouslyupon his "Sixth Symphony": that which had been growing in his mind formore than ten years; and which, while it forms, perhaps, his greatestclaim to immortality, was the first to open the eyes of Philistia to thesplendors of his powers. Like all of those few artistic masterpiecesthat approach perfection, the "Tosca Symphony" is popular alike with themany and with the few; because it contains something of the essence ofall humanity: strikes a chord that must find some echo in the breast ofevery man and woman that has known the meaning of pain. But, superb aswas the height attained in this work, Ivan paid dearly for itsaccomplishment. For, from the nervous breakdown that marked itsconclusion, he never fully recovered. 

In the weeks dividing New Year's Day from the April of 1890, Gregorievseldom left his bed. He was attended night and day by Piotr and Piotr'sson; who saw, with growing alarm, how slowly the strength seemed to comeback to him, and how little increase of vitality arrived with thatquickening of the year to which Ivan had always heretofore responded soeagerly. 

Through the long days during which he alternated between fever anddebility, Ivan sank into a hell of the senses; and daily gazed withlonging upon the still closed gates of life. He had heard thelow-calling voices of departed Shades. He had been given misty glimpsesof the Elysian land that lay beyond those high black bars. Long and longwas it before he could turn his face from that vision back to the graysand glooms of his worn routine. And when at last it became patent to himthat this must be, he still clung to the erratic and feverish fanciesfor the abnormal, that had come to him in his illness. By May theMaidonovo household stood aghast at the incomprehensible manner of theirsilent master's renewed life. Those who knew him well surmised hismental condition; but even Kashkine could not fathom the depth to whichhis thoughts had sunk. Certainly none but a Russian could, or can, comprehend the terrible reality of what must, to the inhabitants of thesunshine lands, seem the mere wilful depression of a hypochondriac. Butthose men and women who have dwelt all their lives beneath a sky ofleaden gray, in an horizonless space of desolate, unbroken steppe; whosechildren and children's children must come into a heritage even heavierthan their own, handed down from those first, hunted creatures who beganthe age-long battle with ice and snow and frozen hurricanes--these, alas! know well that the disease of Ivan was no pretence, but areality, as grim, as terrible, as sullen, as the temperament of theirpeasant-brethren. And not one of them but had felt, to some degree, thesame, deep, passionless, revulsive anger that was working in him, andturning him from the old, secret habits of spiritual meditation and highthought, into passions of blasphemy and atheism which burned ever deeperinto his brain. 

It was in this final phase of inward revolt against the submissivereligions that are permitted to govern the world, that Ivan, nearlyrecovered from bodily weakness, took up the history of religion andbegan to search, diligently, through all the forms of anthropomorphism, for that one which should display the most artistic beauty and formalgrace. It was impossible to hesitate long. There is no paganism ofobscure antiquity that can compare, in poetic beauty, with thescarce-forgotten rites of the Hellenic Pantheon. Fired by anunlooked-for enthusiasm in his chosen task of apostasy, he finally tookfor his protective deity that least divine, weakest, and most exquisiteof the gods of the Greeks:--Aphrodite. 

Mad Ivan! Far indeed went he in his bitter defiance of High God! Hisattendants looked on in frightened mystification at the changes nowpreparing in the inner of the two up-stairs rooms in which their masterhad been wont to work. Some simple carpentry; a large number of unusualarticles commanded from Moscow: one, more expensive than all the others, brought in a coffin-like box from France; the transferrence of all hisparaphernalia of work into the outer room; and behold the fane of Ivan'snew goddess!--a semicircular chamber hung in deep violet; in the centreof the jut a low, circular pedestal, draped in black, and flanked oneither side by two high church candlesticks of wrought silver, containing painted candles kept always alight, the windowless roomcontaining, beside these, only one, silver lamp hanging from the centreof the sombre ceiling. Opposite the altar-pedestal, stood the singlepiece of furniture in this strange room: a long, low couch of Spanishleather, violet in color, placed so that the occupant could gazedirectly upon the figure finally lifted to the pedestal prepared forher: an exquisite modern statue of Aphrodite of old, which had won ayoung Frenchman the Prix de Rome, and was compared by those authoritiesnot inimical to the sculptor, to be worthy of the chisel of Praxiteles. Ivan had taken advantage of the quarrel among the committee who wereconsidering it for purchase for the Luxembourg, and had bought it fromits affronted creator for one hundred thousand francs. 

Three workmen and Piotr had, during its preparation, gained glimpses ofthis room. Afterwards Piotr entered it once or twice in the month forthe purpose of cleaning. But, barring this, once the door was shut onthe completed shrine, no one save Ivan beheld it; though he soon knew itto be the chief reason why he was spoken of with bated breath by his ownservants; and called by the inhabitants of Klin a madman. And, truly, there were days when his appearance and behavior might have brought thatthought to other minds than those of illiterate peasants. But these wereonly the hours when he was dominated by the fantastic spirit inherent inthe pungent paste which he kept in a golden, jewel-studded tube at thefeet of the goddess. For, when the black butterfly of his melancholy nowdanced before his eyes, Ivan reverted remorselessly to that opium whichhe had for years abstained from. These days were irregular, however, andthe act voluntary, being not as yet compelled by physical craving. And, in the intervals, he pursued his ordinary occupations of reading andcomposing, to which he had now added the transcribing of his own memoirsand a self-instituted office of beauty-worship at the statue-shrine, inaugurated in a fit of angry repudiation of Christian rites, andcontinued in that spirit of half-ironical defiance that was now his mostsalient characteristic. So, month by month, he dwelt alone, withdrawingdaily more and more within himself, and by degrees lessening personalcontact as much as possible even with his servants. Nevertheless heretained one means of communication with the world beyond, in acorrespondence maintained with half a dozen representatives of as manydifferent grades of life: Nathalie, of whom he constantly demandedfurther details of the story of the Grand-Duchess Catharine; Balakirev, now long since in Zaremba's chair at the Petersburg Conservatoire;Avélallement in Hamburg; an odd little Parisian journalist--through whomhe had eventually obtained the Thébaud Venus; and, lastly, theredeparted from Maidonovo, twice a month, letters addressed to the inmateof a certain convent in the Arno Valley near Florence, whence replies asregularly arrived, giving quaintly monotonous accounts of the life andwelfare of one Vittoria Lodi, at present merely a dependant in theconvent and the special penitent of the writer: a little old priest, theonly man ever allowed within those sacred walls. 

In every one of these people Ivan, despite his distaste for personalcontact with men, took the keenest interest. Their welfare was ofgenuine moment to him; though wherefore, he could not himself have said. Probably this form of communion with his fellow-beings satisfied thehunger for social intercourse without which man cannot exist as man. Andby degrees his memoirs--the continuation of a sporadic journal long keptup, which was, however, merely a mass of disconnected thoughts, flashesof perception, remarks on personal events, and endless reflections onthe unrevealed Alpha and Omega of life--began to be filled with othermatter: chapter after chapter containing nothing but accounts of andspeculations concerning two beings as far apart as the poles of theearth, and bearing no such similarity: the history and surmisedcharacter of Nathalie's beloved patroness, the Grand-Duchess Catharine, and those of the child of the wild romance of Alexandrine Nikitenko andVittorio Lodi. 

As to the mental atmosphere in which Ivan passed these strange days andnights of his, it was indescribable, but peculiarly powerful. For, justas there are certain incidents or periods in our lives which, for noperceptible reason, stand out in our memory with marked vividness, sothese last weeks of Ivan's were so fraught with nervous electricity thateach smallest incident took on the importance of an event. And Ivan, considering, became gradually convinced that these were the last days ofhis life. 

Gregoriev was fifty years old; a man ordinarily normal, robust, unweakened by excesses of any description or by any irregularities oflife. High-strung nervously though he was, there was still no doctor butwould have given him many years yet to live. Nevertheless, hishallucination of approaching death remained unshaken; and he lookedforward to the end quite calmly, as the sure conclusion of a prescribedterm of study and work: the beginning of a rest of undeterminedduration. 

Unnatural as his life had become, the months from May to October werenevertheless fertile in production. All the works of this time, however, are so peculiar in style that they remained in manuscript long after hisdeath, and the general public are still unfamiliar with that which isprobably the greatest, though no doubt the strangest of them all: the"Pagan Fantasia, " after the first reading of which Kashkine andBalakirev, who were alone together, looked angrily from each other tothe fire, from which nothing but the memory of their friend's dead facesaved that composition which afterwards came to exercise so powerful afascination over both of them. At the same time, the spell which thoseunparalleled harmonies casts over the auditor is considered sounhealthy, that this flower of Ivan's madness is not yet in print. Others of the works of this time, the "Songs of the Herzeleide, " the"House of Life, " and the "Hymn to Pan" (both these last written fororgan and orchestra), together with the "Serenade to Death, " aregradually acquiring a public who listen in disorganized astonishment tothese records of a soul in the strangest travail ever revealed tofellow-men. --But enough! Another paragraph, and Gregoriev is lostforever to Philistia!

Not only Kashkine, but all those who heard of Ivan at this time, believed that, behind his eccentricities, there still lurked a sardonicgrin at his own behavior; than which there can surely be no healthiersign! Yet, towards the very end, he committed an act which once moreplunged the most indulgent of his friends into exasperated anger withhis folly. 

Since his passing, the baton of Nicholas the well-beloved had beenwielded by Brodsky, who had acquitted himself through two seasons ofsymphony concerts with considerable credit. The date of the firstconcert of the series of 1890-1891, had been set for October 9th; andits _pièce de résistance_ was the "Sixth Symphony" of Gregoriev, whosefiftieth birthday was to be celebrated by the playing of this, hisgreatest work, with whose praises Moscow was already mysteriouslya-murmur; and afterwards by a supper, to be given that evening by hisold confrères of the Conservatoire. It was really Russia's capitulationto her greatest musician, in whose universal acclaim there was to be notone dissentient voice. 

On the first day of the month Ivan received a letter from Kashkine, explaining these things, giving a minute plan of the arrangements, andeagerly congratulating Ivan on his assured triumph. For, well as heknew his friend's instability, Constantine never for an instant doubtedthat Ivan would consent to appear at a reunion for which, as Kashkineknew, he had been longing, bitterly, ever since the sudden accession tohis father's wealth and title had barred him from the old-timefellowship. --Wherefore Constantine's letter was couched not in terms ofpleading, but in sentences of joyous satisfaction at the prospect ofIvan's delight. This was the reply:

"MAIDONOVO, _October 2nd_. 

 "MY DEAR CONSTANTINE CONSTANTINOVITCH, --Many thanks. Unfortunately, I have now endured about thirty years of concerts; and I fear that the thousand-and-first will hardly tempt me to Moscow. Appropriate all applause to yourself; for verily I think you are the man who has kept me at it for the past ten years. Also, do not give up your _festa_ afterwards. It will be far better than if I were present to silence the mirth with my morose presence. Drink me one toast, if you will; for it is borne in upon me that that day will be one of transformation for me. Therefore wish me, while I wish you

 "Success and happiness!

 "IVAN BLASHKOV-GREGORIEV. "

And Kashkine, crushing the letter savagely into a ball, muttered, between his teeth: "Ah! 'transformation'! we'll all drink to that! But, by God, it'll never come to him now!"

 * * * * *

By a quarter before two o'clock on the afternoon of October 9, 1890, theSymphony Hall of the Moscow Conservatoire was filled to the doors. Thewinter season had doubly begun; for, outside, sleighs were flyingjoyously through the first snow-storm. All the inhabitants of theKremlin and Equerries' quarters were back from estate and resort; andmost of the ladies of their families were seated in the wreath of boxesthat crowned the amphitheatre of the hall. Indeed, from a fashionableand musical point of view, it was an audience such as has seldom beensurpassed in the old Russian city; and, to _mondaine_ and musicianalike, the Gregoriev symphony was the event of the afternoon. For wasnot its composer a Prince, a millionaire, and his composition themasterpiece of Russian musical literature?

In the left-hand stage-box were gathered a little group of his own, oldcircle, about the empty chair which had been reserved, in case--faintlypossible--the erratic one should suddenly appear. Kashkine, Laroche, Ostrovsky, and Ivan's passionate young admirer Rimsky-Korsakow, satthere in silence, all of them thinking the same half-bitter, half-resentful thoughts. In their own minds they were persuaded that thesuccess of the symphony meant more to them than to any other personseither in the audience or in the city. But they were oddly wrong. Nearthem were seated two women, one in a box, amid a little group of peopleof the extreme of fashion; the other by herself, in a stall in theparquet. Both of them were secretly and nervously afire. Both lookedanxiously for Ivan's appearance, longing eagerly for a sight of hisface. And the two of them were at opposite ends of the feminine world;for one was the Princess Nathalie Féodoreff; the other, a white-faced, worn-looking, plainly dressed woman, seemingly of the lowermiddle-class, was Irina Petrovna; finished, now, with the activedegradations of her life; living in a great silence, upon the scantysavings of her years of mad extravagance. For her, this was to have beena day of days: a daring expense, to be paid for by the sacrifice ofluncheon and supper, little missed in the joys of anticipation andmemory. Her worn-out emotions had fired again at the dream of meetingthe one man who had for years remained the unshattered idol of herheart. Her comprehension of his music--life-music as it was--was fuller, perhaps, than that of the delicate Princess; to whom Ivan's unexpectedabsence was but a passing disappointment. She had come down fromPetersburg to hear the symphony; and, since he was evidently not to bepresent, she suddenly decided to be the first to carry him the news ofhis triumph. As she considered the plan, her excitement grew; and sheresolved to take the train which left at six o'clock for Klin: daringher cousin to turn her from his inhospitable door in the late evening. 

Every one knows what happened at the concert, when, for the first time, the notes of that matchless symphony fell upon the ears of the world:when the supreme desolation of the magnificent, crashing retrogressionof the finale held a thousand people in breathless, trembling stillness;the tears of Ivan's boundless yearning: the passions of the true_Weldschmerz_ glazing every eye. Accounts of the mad storm of applausewhich finally rose into a chorus of shouts for Ivan, are still preservedin the scrap-books of those who were there. And, though Ivan came notand the noise was finally stilled, two hours later, when the audiencetrooped out into the snowy darkness, but one name was on every lip: oneregret in every heart. Had he but known it, Ivan's act in not coming wasan unconscious but complete revenge for his years of neglect. 

At the entrance to the hall the Princess Féodoreff parted from herastonished hostess, saying that she intended passing the night at thehouse of the Grand-Duchess--wife of the Governor-General. And, leavingher friends appeased by this sufficient but rather unexpected excuse, Nathalie hurried into a public droschky, and was presently flyingthrough the streets towards the Petersburg station--and Ivan. 

 * * * * *

Thus was Ivan finally, and for all time, established in his own land. Thenceforward, while music shall endure, his name must be written amongthose who have advanced their most perfect of the arts to a higherstandard. His work was done: his battle over. His name was blazoned foreternity on the roster of the Russian Great. 

But the man? Where was he, what was he doing, upon this, his day?

It was half-past three when the first movement of the "Tosca Symphony"ended in the concert-hall. At that hour Ivan returned to his house froma long walk through the whitened fields, and, donning dressing-gown andslippers, went up to his work-room and shut the door. Moved by a mostunusual impulse, he seated himself at the piano and began to play, frommemory, some strains from the last act of "die Götterdämmerung. " At thepoint where Brunhild, carried beyond herself and her abhorred mortalityback to the heights of immortal perception and abnegation, sings, withdivine calm, the words: "Ruhe, Ruhe, du Gott!"--Ivan paused. The phrasecaught him up. The majesty of the chords in which the great German hasframed it, suddenly fired him with longing: "Rest thee, Rest thee, thouGod!" He played it over and over, meditatively, humming the words in therich, low notes of the score. And in those moments his final hour wasushered in. 

All day, struggle as he would, Ivan had been keyed to a pitch of nervousexcitement by speculations concerning the concert in Moscow. Finally, atnoon, he had gone out, determined upon attaining an animal fatigue whichwould rest his brain. His struggle with the wind and snow accomplishedthe first end, but not the second. Now, however, those words of thedying goddess--she who stood quietly awaiting her chosen death, broughta great calm to his mind. As he lingered over them his face changed, anda new look came into those eyes which had striven so many times, oflate, to pierce the shadows that enshroud the future. 

"Rest thee, oh God!"

Rest--for _him_! How often had he demanded it, in vain? Now, at last, hewas enjoined to _take_ it--for himself. 

Rising from the piano he went to the door which led into the outer hall, locked it, and drew the bolt fast. Then, in the wall on the right, hepressed the spring which opened the invisible door to the room of thegoddess. Entering there, he lighted the two candles at the flame of theburning lamp, and filled the little golden censer that swung before thestatue, with incense; noting, the while, with his customary delight, thedelicate transparency of the pure Carrara against the soft violet of thehangings behind her and the shadowy black at her feet. Finally, when thethin, fragrant smoke had begun to fill the room with its soft haze, hetook the golden tube from its place on the pedestal, and prepared forhimself the largest dose of the narcotic that he had ever dreamed oftaking. After that he returned, quietly, to his piano. 

Darkness had nearly come, and the unlighted music-room was lapped in apleasant twilight, broken only by the faint gleam from the candles, which entered through the open doorway. The odor of the incense waseverywhere; and the mystic scent and warmth of the inner air contrastedwell with the shrieking of the demon-ridden wind outside the house. Theatmosphere perfectly suited Ivan's state of mind. All anxiety about theconcert had gone. Some inkling of success floated through his brain; butthe matter now seemed infinitesimally small. The world, with itsstruggling millions of unknown men and women, was farther away from himnow than the shadowland of the departed. For he was almost face to facewith the problem of Eternity. 

Alas! In the life he knew, how small a part did justice, that law innatein every human heart, play? How much less seemed the justice of Godtowards his creatures, good and bad, than the justice, or the pity, ofthese creatures for one another? It was this feeling which had generatedthat deep, all-pervading sense of injury, that anger with and distrustof the Almighty, that had thrown Ivan into his revolt. And who was toexplain why we are left in the world without any knowledge of whence andwhither; knowing only that from birth till death we are surrounded byevil:--evil rewarded; good defiled, disgraced; yet mankind still underthe command of man and of God to walk straightly, in fear of promiseddamnation? It was the question he had asked in his "Tosca Symphony":that symphony of helpless, human wonder and sorrow. And the question, repeated for the last time in the great _motif_ of the _finale_, wasstill unanswered. 

He sat, now, drearily playing fragments of various works, his brainteeming with memories: of his mother, in her sweetness and purity, boundfor life to the brute force that had crushed her youth away in the firstdays of her married life; of Nathalie and her husband, the husband whohad been the--admirer--of her own mother; of that shadowy Princess whosegrave eyes he beheld overflowing with her secret woe, as they overlookedthe vast and misty throng of mismated womanhood; lastly of the daughterof a woman who had rebelled against her lot; the nameless child ofAlexandrine Nikitenko, who, filled as she was with the vivid life of herpassionate heritage, was about to be shrouded away from the world sheloved in the coif and robe of the cloistered nun. Gentle women: puremen; God's world! Why are the two first so unfitted for the last? To Godwe apply the attributes of omnipotence, omniscience, omnipresence. Ifthese attributes be true, whence the evil that rules the world?--Is ourGod a demon? It is the logical inference. 

To-day, for the hundredth time, Ivan cast away his defences of sarcasm, mockery, sophistry, and faced that question that has gone unansweredfrom generation to generation. As he meditated, his face lost itsrecently acquired harshness; his deep eyes grew sadder even than theirwont; the look of a vast, ineffaceable weariness settled upon him. Withface uplifted he continued to play, drifting through his own many formsof that unanswered question into final silence. Then, rising, he passed, a little unsteadily, into the inner room, and ate once more of the thickblack paste in its golden tube. 

Twilight had now long since merged into darkness. In the work-room Ivanlighted two lamps, and then, going to the fireplace, which he had heresubstituted for the traditional stove, and wherein a low fire burned, hethrew on half a dozen blocks of peat. Then, turning to the high bookcasenear at hand, he drew down, with fumbling hands, the sixteen red-leatherbooks that constituted his journal and newly-written memoirs. Standingthere, he read certain passages of this transcription of his mentallife. Finally, with a straightening of his figure, he took the books oneby one, tore off the covers, and stuffed the closely written sheets intothe flames. Afterwards, like one in a daze, he returned to the piano. 

It was his own, strange "Invocation to Death" to which his half-numbedfingers turned. The sound of the notes reached his ears as if from agreat distance. Also, he was conscious of a feeling of nausea which toldhim that the fatal narcotic was working, powerfully. After a time, hisfingers fell from the keys. Out of the enclosing mists he heard a voicecalling: the clear, sweet voice of one distant, but coming nearer. Itwas the voice of Sophia, his mother. 

His face was uplifted, and he smiled as he echoed her words:

"Rest thee, Rest thee, thou God!"

With some difficulty he rose to his feet, and stumbled, heavily, intothe inner room, where Aphrodite gleamed through her incense cloud. Here, with the air of one tired unto death, he sank down upon the leatherncouch. And so the heavy eyelids closed over his weary, weary eyes. 

EPILOGUE

THE TRANSLATION

An hour went by. The form upon the couch had neither moved nor given anysign of life; yet body and soul still held together. The mind was onlysunk into a stupor of complete unconsciousness. When it was that thechange began, none could have determined. After a few moments of afaintly visible fluttering of the breath, a wider parting of the lips, the feeble movement of a finger, Ivan's eyes suddenly flew wide open, his jaw relaxed and dropped. He was immediately sensible that all theheaviness of the opiate had passed from him; and that his being waspossessed by a singular lightness and freedom. Then he perceived that, at his side, in close contact, indeed, with his new self, was hismother: tenderness incarnate, as of old, yet with undoubted anxietyabout her. 

"Smile for me, mother! Welcome me home!" he cried; filled now with adeep, expanding joy, wholly new and wonderful. 

Sophia, looking down upon him, smiled, indeed, but pitifully, and withless of joy than of anxiety in her gentle look. Starting back from this, he turned to look about him, and found himself surrounded byshadow-shapes of many that he had known of old: Madame Dravikine, Nicholas, Zaremba, and old Sósha: ay, even pallid Joseph, too, lurkingbehind a little group of brethren of the spirit: in life unknown; indeath beloved. There was Mozart the beautiful; Beethoven, of lion-mien;Schumann, Schubert, Wagner the tempestuous, and the melancholy Pole. Butnone of them approached him closely, yearn as he might for welcome fromthem, his familiars. Nor did Sophia's sweet seriousness brighten. 

"Mother, what is it?" he whispered. "Why are we waiting?"

"For a decision, Ivan. You have come to us before your time. "

"But not without reason, " he answered, quietly, with a dignity thatseemed to her adequate. "There is a question I have died to ask. "

"It shall be heard, then, " said a voice: a voice inexplicable; resonant;divine. 

Immediately Sophia and all the silent throng melted away. Ivan, nolonger bound to the empty shell upon the couch, prostrated himself, instinctively, before the figure that appeared, framed in the oakendoorway of the outer room: the figure of a man white-robed, whose face, luminous and gently strong, was turned to him in tranquil majesty. 

"Ask thy question, O Mortal, " repeated the Christ-voice. 

So Ivan, lifting his head, replied: "I came to ask it; being unablelonger to reconcile myself to a life inconsistent with all logic. 

"O King! Tell me how it is that a world, God-conceived, thereforeinevitably perfect, became corrupt, filled with, and governed by, evil?wherein great burdens are borne by the good; and wickedness, vice, injustice, flourish unrebuked and unpunished. Whence comes this evil, and why?"

The question was spoken bravely and unfalteringly, for Ivan couldperceive no sign of displeasure in the thoughtful countenance of the ManDivine. There was an impressive pause; and Ivan had his answer. 

"You have demanded a knowledge that is far beyond your present mortalunderstanding. But be assured that he who asks this question shallreceive, in due time, its answer. --Yet know you so little of divine lawthat you desire truth without a struggle to gain it? that you demand themost priceless boon of creation as a favor, thinking to give naught inreturn? Nay, more: you have broken a law written at creation in theheart of every man; and thus, by the destruction of your earthlyfetters, have sought a good end by evil means. This, then, shall be myjudgment of your sin: In the punishment for your act of suicide, youshall obtain the truth, the knowledge, that you have died to seek. 

"And let this be your appointed task, whereby you may reach that seasonof rest given each soul in the intervals between its experiences: Takefirst four years among your fellows here. Then return to the world ofmortals where, in mortal guise, yet not in true confinement within thebounds of the flesh, you shall find a path appointed you to travel. There shall you cross the lives of two women, both of whom shall beknown to you: the secrets of their hearts and souls laid bare to yourtransmortal mind. To these twain, dwellers in the provinces of good andof evil, you shall seek to give what aid your wisdom can devise forthem. And in that attempt--the attempt to swerve them from the pathsdictated by their own temperaments, you shall learn the reason for theills you deprecate. --I have spoken. Obey the word; and in this laborfind thy reward. "

"Master, I will obey!--But--the four years--"

The trembling question halted; for, heeding his voice no longer, theDivine Figure passed beyond sight. And presently Ivan, lost in newmeditation, perceived that he was floating softly upward, through space. About him, close as in his long-past babyhood, were clasped hismother's arms; which drew him at last into that peace that passethunderstanding. 

 * * * * *

It was nine o'clock when the little household of Maidonovo was throwninto a ferment over the unexpected arrival of Princess Féodoreff, whocame without either luggage or maid. After she had entered the littlelibrary, Piotr and young Ivan held a hurried conference in the hall, thequestion of which the Princess herself speedily solved. Coming out ofthe room, she bade the young man conduct her, without ceremony, to theretreat of her ogre. 

Five minutes later she ceased to bruise her knuckles upon that locked, unyielding door. --What in the world was Ivan about?--Never, truly, hadman slept through such noise as this!--And Ivan's sleep was notablylight!

With a chill of premonition, she ran down the hall to call the men. 

When at last Piotr, young Ivan, and Makár, working in a frenzy of dread, had torn the door from its hinges, Nathalie passed through, alone, intothat inner room over which Ivan reigned no longer. She was the first tolook upon his dead face, illumined by the candle-light--and by somethingmore. It was also she--the one great love of his loveless life--whoclosed, at last, those staring, questioning eyes.