of his year of disgrace,--1862, Ivan, braving scorn,
rejection, even deliberate non-recognition, entered the doors of the
Conservatoire over the dead body of his false pride, and asked to see
the director, Monsieur Zaremba.

He emerged from that building, a little later, with a radiant face, and
a heart throbbing with gratitude. Not only Zaremba, but both Rubinsteins
had come from their classes to greet him; showing in their manner
respect, interest, nay, almost, he believed, pleasure! And, before he
had made his simple request, more than he had dreamed of asking had been
suggested--proffered to him: so generously, moreover, that he could not
possibly take it as patronage. He had now, under his arm, a roll of
manuscript music to be copied into parts--for which work the pay was
good. Such tasks, he was assured, could be promised regularly. But
there were already other plans in his brain--plans suggested by Nicholas
Rubinstein and developed by the others. Ivan must re-enter the harmony
classes; and there would be no charge, during the winter, since he could
surely, by a little exertion, win one of the scholarships given after
the annual competitions in June. With one of these--or the money he
should earn in later years, all obligations might be cancelled--if he
chose. For these musicians recognized their kind: and, since that
long-past evening of the _barcarolle_, had marked Ivan for a future,
according to their lights. As for the events of the past May--what was
the army, what was a pretty woman, to them? To their minds, the whole
episode had been singularly fortunate; since it delivered Ivan from a
useless and foolish life; and gave them an opportunity to push the
youth, willy-nilly, into revealing the final quality of his undoubted
talent.--And they were to discover it, indeed. After which, according to
their inconsistent consistency, Ivan having attained some slight
reputation, they might turn upon him, one and all, and score him,
bitterly, in their jealousy.--Which fact, with many another equally sure
and equally unpleasant, remained unsuspected by the happy man who
ascended his four flights of stairs that snowy night to light a
sacrificial fire to the arbiter of his soul, the first of the promised
gods, who had stolen in upon him unawares, and now cast off his whole
disguise: the god of labor loved.

At last Ivan's days began to be full: full of a dry work that contained
many sources of keen interest to him. Certai