earer the light, and began to read. As
his eyes rapidly followed the familiar writing, his face grew crimson
with slow, unwonted anger. His thick neck swelled. His lips were
compressed, 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 broke
into 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 his
own self-possession, save for the gnawing pain that was to lie at his
heart 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 protege's magnificent talent. He had heard many a
fragment of the tone-poem, during its long progress towards completion;
and, unconsciously, he had judged it enough to understand the injustice
of that petty and malicious letter; doubtful though he still was as to
its immediate motive. True, Nicholas had too often suffered from his
brother's tormenting jealousy to be by any means blind to Anton's fault.
Yet it seemed a preposterous thing that a man with a reputation
world-wide, built on the double foundation of creation and
interpretation, should descend to the meanness of persecuting a mere
boy: one whose foot was not yet firmly fixed on the second round of the
great ladder upon which he himself towered so securely and so
high!--And yet--had not this same belittling blemish been the bugbear of
his own, generous existence? Was anything impossible in one whom he had
known again and again to stoop to the pettiest forms of personal malice
and vindictiveness.

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

In the following hour there passed much further conversation between the
two; but Rubinstein, while professing every sympathy, never hinted at
the idea that was taking shape in his mind. When he left the bedroom at
last, Ivan felt that, in spite of himself, he should get some sleep; for