y wantonly malicious, knocked
at Ivan's door. Two only were admitted--neither of whom could come under
the general category. One of these was Nicholas Rubinstein; the other
Laroche. Probably, of all the world, only these two understood Ivan at
this time. But their understanding and their love stood them in poor
stead now. He whom they sought to comfort lay deep in a hell of his own,
from the very threshold of which they were barred away. Later, through
the hours of the meeting--which Ivan silently divined--Laroche remained
alone with him. And Nicholas' return, with news of victory, in some
measure lessened his agony of shame. But it was weeks before he was
known to show his face outside of his own rooms or the Conservatoire;
for he gave way, unresisting, to the morbidness always lying in wait for
him. And all Rubinstein's upbraidings, all the eloquent logic of
Laroche, could move him to nothing but the reiterated statement that,
years before, at his court-martial, he had been conscious of no fault
for which to lower his head; whereas this time--alas!--he had been
guilty of many more than one: of laziness; of preposterous vanity;
finally, worst of all, of that unpardonable cowardice and
self-consciousness whereby he had lost his final hope of scraping
through the ordeal--by means of his native wit and the experience and
influence of the concertmeister Gruening.

In the end, Nicholas,--always, forever, this good Rubinstein, set to
work to manufacture a bomb which should, in one instant, blow to
fragments the walls of Ivan's self-constructed hermitage, and bring him
forth again into the free light of heaven--and work. And this difficult
task he did, as a matter of fact, accomplish. For it was on an evening
in the latter half of November that he and Laroche entered Ivan's rooms
at the customary hour, but with new light in their eyes. Waiting only
till the fire was replenished and pipes drawing well, Nicholas observed,
between puffs:

"Well, I've had my final talk with Merelli; and I have brought with me,
for signing, the contracts covering the production, to be made on New
Year's night, of your opera, 'The Boyar.'"

Ivan stiffened for an instant; then sank dully back, saying, without a
whit of expression in his voice: "Don't tease me any further about old
visions, Nikolai.--Even from you that comes hard."

Nicholas' reply was to draw from his pocket a thin roll of paper, which,
separating into duplicate, printed sheets,