Ivan
the knowledge that he stood already more than one round above his
fellows on the great ladder of attainment.

In one way, indeed, the young man had hardly needed this active proof of
his ability; for, for some time now, there had been growing in him a
quality much needed by his kind: a stern, dogged, ineradicable belief in
himself and his eventual recognition. Rooted, as, to the shame of
mankind, has been the lot of so many of the world's true great, in the
deep bitterness of non-recognition; growing, sturdily, in the midst of
beating storms and freezing snows of jealousy, malice, criticism
incredibly stupid, misfortunes persistent and discouraging; such natures
as these are bound at last to blossom, gloriously, in the sunlight of
success; and live, nourished by the quiet dews of appreciation; unless,
indeed, as in certain cases, the growth has been too delicate, too
exquisite, too sensitive to outlive the probation years, and fades
before it has come into maturity, while the bloom of full achievement is
yet in the bud. But Ivan was not of these last. His stubbornness was
great; and he labored on, doggedly, sore as was his heart, till June
brought release from his labors at the Conservatoire. Then he betook
himself and his few belongings joyously back to Vevey, where
surroundings of natural beauty, rest, isolation, the absence of
unwelcome tasks, gave him back his strength, and restored both his hope
and his ambition.

During this period his great task was always "The Boyar." But, in the
intervals between his stretches of regular work, he undertook certain
lighter things, based on themes jotted down in his note-book at odd
moments. It was, indeed, during this summer,--though Kashkine has
erroneously attributed them to a later year, that he produced the
celebrated "Songs of the Steppes," those "Chansons sans Paroles," which
the world hums still, even after a vogue which would, in six months,
have killed anything less original, less intangibly charming and
uncommon. These finished--and the sheets of manuscript were printed,
eighteen months later, almost without change--he caught a sudden fever
of entomology: hunted daily for specimens, but preserved, eventually,
only six of his captures: a moth, silver and green; a butterfly of
steely, iridescent blue; a solemn, black-coated cricket; a bee bound
round with the five golden rings of Italy; a tiny, rainbow-hued
humming-bird, found dead in a fast-shut moon-flower; and,