their respective talents; and that it was a pity to allow
Russian musical progress to be intrusted to such well-meaning but
incompetent persons as the second soprano and tenor.

To the indignation of the prima-donna, however, the Menschikov, who, in
the end, had risen to no small heights in her interpretation of the
hapless Marie, was allowed to retain the role. But Ivan had the relief
of seeing Finocchi of the hopeless ear replaced by Limpadello, through
whom the quartet was now firmly united and became the sensation of the
whole, sensational piece.

In the eight weeks of January and February, the opera was given eleven
times. During the latter month the St. Petersburg company began to
rehearse it; and at the end of March, on the Monday after Easter--one of
the great nights of the year--Ivan and Ostrovsky sat together in a
stage-box, watching the delight of one of the most magnificent audiences
ever assembled in the Grand Theatre. The performance was as faultless as
a performance can be made; and, as a final compliment to the composer,
his own "nature ballet" was performed, with Mademoiselle Ellsler, who
had come from Vienna for the purpose, in her already famous _pas seul_
of the Butterfly. Before the last curtain descended, Ivan had been
forced upon the stage beside his companion, to respond to the frantic
plaudits of the men and women who, a few years before, had turned from
Ivan Gregoriev as from one accursed.

After the opera there was still a long and hilarious supper, given by
Merelli, to be endured; and when, an hour or two before dawn, Ivan
finally reached his rooms, he found upon his table a sealed envelope,
unaddressed. Opening it, there fell to the floor a packet of notes for
two thousand roubles, together with a little slip of paper containing,
in his father's writing, the words:

"You have deserved this; but I do not wish to see you."

The wish was obeyed. But the money, after some hesitation, Ivan spent.

Final success after long and bitter waiting is apt to prey curiously on
the human character. Ivan took his oddly enough. His intimate
friends--the only people to whom hitherto he had showed common civility,
became first amazed, then chagrined, finally infuriated, by his sudden
change of front. By swift degrees he ceased his intimacy with them all:
Laroche, Kashkine, Balakirev, nay, Nicholas himself. And by mid-April he
found himself scarcely on speaking terms with one of them.

Angered, hurt as