he very vitals of Ivan's manhood, Ivan's courage.
It was evident to him that his father, having somewhere beheld a
programme of the concert, finding his son's name in famous company, had
determined to give him one more chance of favor. He had come to hear the
symphony: to find out whether, after all, the last Gregoriev were worth
something. And--he had found out, indeed!

Thus, for the thousandth time, the unhappy man reviewed the history of
the past three months. Minutes dragged themselves away. His thoughts
grew less keen. The intense nervousness that had possessed him earlier,
diminished. Little by little his pulses quieted, his temples ceased to
throb. He sat wondering, vaguely, what new labor his hands must turn to,
now that he had proved himself a fool in the profession he loved. His
education might, possibly, be found of some account. There were such
things as army coaches, he believed:--poor, broken-down creatures,
living upon broken possibilities and the sale of their commissions. Then
there recurred the memory of his old tutor, Ludmillo. He had not always
been unhappy. His life had been dull enough, certainly; but there was
nothing of this hideous notoriety in it. He--perhaps--

The great Kremlin clock sent twelve, slow strokes booming through the
frosty air. Ivan started, suddenly.--By now, at least, the performance
must be at an end! And--nobody had come to him!--They had all
dreaded the breaking of the news. Even Sosha:--Then it _had_
failed!--Failed.--Ah, that spark of hope! Good Heavens! Had it actually
existed, after all? Why else this terrible pain? this sickness? This
conscious pallor?--Nonsense! Had he dreamed of anything else for one
moment? He tried, desperately, for a shred of philosophy; and then found
himself pacing the floor, knees trembling, heart in throat, that sense
of nauseated faintness boding little good to a man seeking
tranquillity.--Truly, it was in the ten ensuing minutes that the climax
of his long, desperate struggle was reached, at last.

Hark! What hear we afar off? This paean of trumpets? this rolling of
chariot-wheels? No ghosts, to-night. Surely, this time, these are the
gods themselves, that wait without this humble door!

At least the sound that smote Ivan's ears was real enough. A burly fist
was pounding on the knocker. An instant's pause. Then--ah, then he flew,
shakily, to open;--to be greeted by a volley of wreaths, of ribbons,
more precious yet, of flowers--just singl