ecome
appalled at his own capacity for suffering.

* * * * *

During every age of humanity, in every state and stage of human
civilization, there have been certain great-souled beings who, for the
sake 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 very
few of these toilers, Hindoos ascending towards Arahatship, Christians
aspiring to certain heaven by way of certain martyrdom, have been given
beforehand an exact estimate of the price they were to pay. But all
others, the vast majority of those demanding of nature her divinest
gifts, have mortgaged themselves blindly for an amount, and at a rate of
interest, unknown, undreamed of. Of these, Ivan was one. At the age of
sixteen he first felt his power, made his demand. Consciously or
unconsciously--probably both--he cried to Fate: "Behold me! I hold a
message for mankind! The Spirit of Music will deign to make use of me as
her instrument. I am summoned to the world-service. Give me, then, that
which shall make me great enough to bring this gift of mine to its
highest issue, that my mistress may find her priest worthy of acclaim
and of advancement!"

This is a cry that Fate is bound to answer, for it is the cry of
assurance. Hearing his words, the Great One stood before the boy and
considered him thoughtfully. It may be that he was given secret warning
of 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 and
then, with this mysterious, perverse wisdom, his task-master began his
training, blinding the eyes of the pupil to all save the few immediate
steps along the steep road that lay before, permitting him to advance
only step by step, under her guidance. Ivan yielded himself as clay to
those powerful hands; but the clay was pure, and, because of its youth,
more pliable than are those who know themselves only in later years. And
now, 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, and
the summer that he spent alone at ghost-haunted