By half-past, even the boxes were noticeably full; and at that
hour Nicholas Rubinstein appeared, bowed to the tumult of applause,
lifted his baton, and drew forth the opening notes of the second
"Lenore" overture. Ivan, very still and pale, troubled and apprehensive,
sat in one of the stalls near the front, between Balakirev and Laroche,
with Kashkine just behind: both of his Vevey companions having journeyed
a thousand miles to hear their joint tone-poem. Never afterwards,
however, could Ivan remember a single incident of the early afternoon.
The "Italian Symphony," something of Glinka's, one of Anton
Rubinstein's short orchestral commonplaces, were played with the usual
brilliant finish. With the intermission came palpitation, a dry mouth,
and a vague impression of Laroche's biting truths anent Anton's
stupidity as a composer, and his strange influence over hard-headed
Nicholas. Then there was one, last, terrible moment of dread, as the
conductor remounted his dais and paused. Obviously he was addressing his
men. More than that, he was pleading and admonishing; for yesterday's
rehearsal had been a piece of wanton cruelty. But now the baton must go
up, happen what might. And immediately the twenty-minute practical joke
began.[1]

The orchestra played their tone-poem faultlessly as to notes. Like
so many machines, the instruments performed each its allotted
part. But, oh, Heavens!--the effect! Expression: fire, poetry,
understanding--_piano_, _fortissimo_, _crescendo_, _rubato_--there was
absolutely none. Never had thing so dead, so stiff, so hideous, so
discordant, been heard in that opera-house. People stared, looked at one
another, frowned for an instant, smiled; at length, tittered, openly. In
all that great building, but one little group sat silent. Ivan and the
three gathered close at his side, were like men dead. Long before it was
over, Nicholas had flung his baton to the floor and left the stage; but
still the orchestra went on--and on. In the silence following on the
last chord--a silence broken by no demonstration, either of applause or
of hissing--Ivan the composer rose, pushed his way to an aisle, and
hurried blindly out into the streets. Thus he knew nothing of the
remarkable sequel of the affair: how Rubinstein, an instant after the
cessation of the horror, had rushed back upon the stage, addressed a
dozen wild phrases of explanation to the house, and then, at the end of
a sudden clamor demanding Ivan,