ed forth into
the frozen night, his brain at last as empty as his heart.

There remained, however, the fierce desire to place his children well.
The Ophelia he carried to Balakirev and Nicholas Rubinstein, who sat
over it one whole night examining, discussing, rejoicing at its
splendor, its delicacy, the perfection of the reconceived masterpiece.
Next morning Nicholas sent its composer word that he would play it at
the fifth concert of his regular series, on the afternoon of March 4th.
And Ivan was satisfied; for these concerts were the musical events of
Moscow; and the new work was assured of a performance as perfect as he
could desire: an audience as distinguished as it was ably critical.

This arranged, and one rehearsal--at which technical difficulties loomed
large before both men and conductor--impatiently endured, all Ivan's
mind was given up to considerations for the placing of his opera.
Merelli, he knew well, was thirsting for it: would make it his feature
of the next year's season. Should he insist, it would even be rushed
through during the spring. But he was not in haste. Moreover, folly
though it was, he had already, some time ago, begun to desire a petty
triumph: a piece of retribution for the man who had more than once
brought him dire suffering. He wanted unstinted praise for a new work
from his old master, the implacable Zaremba. Since the success of "The
Boyar" he could certainly not be put off with a hasty reading and a
damning criticism of the new score. His peculiar style, many a time torn
and ridiculed by Zaremba and the great _virtuoso_, had now been
applauded by the entire Russian musical world: was beginning to be
recognized beyond the frontier. Certainly it was no longer within range
of one man's malice. So far, no ear but Ivan's had heard "Isabella"; no
eye but his had beheld the pages of that score which, by the
after-judgment of five nations, remains unsurpassed in the history of
opera save by the music-dramas of one Richard of Bayreuth. Already, in
his heart, Ivan knew the value of his work. But his nature, ever prone
to self-depreciation, never wholly believing in his own power till
another had assured him of it, cried out for confirmation of his secret
hope. With the stamp of Zaremba's approval, Petersburg, first city in
the land, would crowd to hear his work; and it would come to Moscow, to
his father, with a double reputation.--In fine, on the morning of
February 15th, a letter and a r