* * * *

Christmas, and the festivities of the new year, approached, proving to
Ivan a time drearier than usual, in the face of his dying hope of an
answer to the letter written, so long before, to his father, in the old
house 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 some
sort, from Prince Michael. Afterwards, looking back to his absolute
faith in an event which he had no sort of reason to expect, it seemed as
if some lost presentiment had found a mistaken home with him; for he
actually spoke to Rubinstein of his visit to his father on that day, as
a fact assured. Therefore, when, on Christmas morning, his
fellow-lodgers, together with a gay little party of intimates, set off
for the Slaviansky Bazaar, where they would literally spend the day at
table, Ivan answered the friendly urging to join them by a resolute
refusal. It was only when they had left the house, that Nicholas
explained his protege's reason for remaining behind; nor so much as
hinted at his secret doubts, or the fact that he had left a cold
luncheon spread on the kitchen-table, in case the mysterious Prince
should not, after all, send for his son.

When he was left alone, Ivan installed himself at a window of the
living-room, whence he could miss no one who should approach the house,
either on foot or driving. He had, for company, the last of Gogol's
semi-tragic satires; and the first hour or two of his wait passed
pleasantly; the unwonted silence in the rooms being a positive relief.
After a time, however, his own thoughts began to intrude themselves
violently upon the endless argument between Vassily Vassilyitch and the
Staroste. So, turning reluctantly from the window, he set himself to
work out some problems in his favorite card game, "yerolash": a Russian
form of whist; which, despite constant practice, he continued to play
very badly. For some time mathematical feats absorbed him. When, at
last, he finished his third puzzle, Ivan Veliki was booming out the
third quarter after twelve. Rather drearily, he lounged across to the
piano. But to-day there was no music in the heart which, on the
contrary, was growing, minute by minute, more heavy and more sad.
Finally, thinking unhappily of the innumerable joyous feasts now
beginning throughout the city--for late mass would be