wondered, frantically, how in the world his symphony
began:--loudly or softly? with violins or with trumpets? The seconds
that followed were the longest of his life. Then the concertmeister,
sitting below, gave an audible murmur; and, together, the violins and
the woodwinds began the first, long-drawn-out notes of the introduction.

Heavens! It had begun! He was in for it--hopelessly. Somehow or other
these terrible men must be kept playing.--How? By whom? Again he looked
at his score, and slowly turned a page. The sound of clarinets smote his
ear. They were actually getting on, then.--Good! Out of the mists of his
terror, there came, at last, an idea: the wild notion that here, now,
came a quick _crescendo_ and climax. With a wide sweep of his baton he
suddenly broke in upon the orchestra and demanded the _tutti_. Gruening,
violently tremoloing, swore, helplessly. The men stared. Wildly, once
more, Ivan indicated full orchestra. So there came one, furious,
discordant crash, as all the instruments, obeying, in their customary,
hypnotic manner, the motion of their leader, came in, each with his
first notes, no matter how far ahead of the present measure they might
be. The noise was, truly, something hideous! The men themselves grew
panic-stricken; and each group strove madly to bring their particular
theme out of the general chaos; thereby increasing, tenfold, the
frightful _charivari_.[1]

From behind, from the vast audience which, till now, had maintained an
amazed stillness, there began to sound little bursts of
laughter--followed by a spluttering streak of hisses which were drowned
in increasing shouts of amusement. The thing was really too absurd for
legitimate disapproval.

Ivan's heart stopped beating. In all his mind there remained but one
thought: that Michael Gregoriev, his father, was a witness of this
scene! Yet he felt the touch upon his arm: he was sensible of the kindly
whisper in his ear. Docilely he followed Nicholas off the stage--away
from this climactic _fiasco_ of all his wretched series of failures. And
Anton, watching the outcome of the scene he had planned with so much
gusto, felt a sudden pang of intense pity, of remorse, of generosity,
shoot through his shrivelled heart.

Two minutes later, the Herr Direktor was on the stage, apologizing
earnestly for the sudden illness of young Monsieur Gregoriev, who had
turned faint as the result of overwork. And then, turning to the
demoralized orchestra