took out the effeminate sheet of note-paper, and
began to read. Second by second his face changed. The letter was not
long; yet before he reached the signature his face had twice flushed
scarlet, and twice gone deadly pale.

It was a half-hour before his door was opened, after a dozen unanswered
knocks, and the room invaded by Nicholas Rubinstein. He beheld his
favorite thrown forward across a table, from which an overturned
inkstand dripped its contents, unnoticed, to the floor. The new-comer
never paused for this; for his eyes had fallen on the letter, crushed in
one of Ivan's out-stretched hands; and then he gazed upon the body which
he 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 some
unintelligible exclamation. And Ivan, deep as he was buried beneath his
weight of despair, heard the sound, and reluctantly raised himself, at
the same time grasping the letter anew, till the intruder's attention
was reattracted by the rustle.

"Aha!" said he, softly; laying a gentle hand on the young man's
shoulder. "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 burst
into a harsh, unpleasant laugh. "Oh yes: it is a death. It is the death
of a very ancient vanity of mine: a silly idea that I--that I--had a
talent!"

Rubinstein's friendly face took on an expression of slow bewilderment,
which began presently to soften into a concern whereat, once more, his
companion 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 fool
enough then not to understand: to go on believing that I--could write
music!"

"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 on
for months.--I didn't dare play it to you. I wanted an opinion
absolutely unbiassed; so I sent the manuscript to--to Zaremba and--your
brother. Well, they gave me what I asked for.--Here's the letter!" and
Ivan, stretching his white lips into a smile, tossed the crumpled paper
to Rubinstein.

That burly man seated himself n