turned to his men, audibly fined every
one of them a month's pay, after which, once again rapping the desk with
his broken baton, he drove them, cowed and shamed, into a twenty minutes
with Ophelia that was destined to fix Ivan's orchestral fame forever
with the Moscow public; for it was a quarter of an hour after the piece
ended for the second time, before the people would accept Kashkine's
frantic assurances that the young man was not in the house.

Utterly oblivious of the turning of the tables, wrapped, as by a shroud,
in that dire silence, Ivan was walking--walking--out into Moscow,
through the frozen streets, under the leaden sky, the terrible anger and
rebellion in him fading slowly to a numbing stillness--a stillness as of
death. Was it really by accident that, on his homeward way, he passed
the post-office to which his letters went? Without hesitation he had
gone into the building. When he came out again there was an expression
of fear in his eyes, and his heart was beating wildly. Nor were his
steps any longer aimless. Taking the nearest droschky, he directed it
first to a chemist's shop, then to his own room, where Sosha opened to
his knock, and noted, as he passed, the envelope in his hand, across
which sprawled Zaremba's old, familiar writing. But the pink package
with its crimson danger-label lay hidden in a pocket.

Ivan sat at his bedroom window for twenty minutes before he found
courage to open his communication. For the first time, doubt of his
opera began to stir in his heart; and the memory of that other long-past
day of disappointment, when Nicholas had found him in this very room,
and had tried to hearten him, came to him as a premonition of doom. How
was he to be heartened now--after so many more years of failure?
Nay--with a half-smile, Ivan laid his recent purchase on the
window-ledge, and slowly drew the letter from its envelope:

"ST. PETERSBURG, _Monday, March 10th_.

"MY DEAR PUPIL:--Despite the fact that your manuscript score
arrived at a time most inopportune, I having recently renounced all
but my most pressing lessons to plunge myself entirely into an
atmosphere of profound creation, I have conscientiously performed
the task you imposed upon me. That this task proved very little
worth while, I write with double regret--my own time being of
considerable value to our world;--though it should not greatly
surprise you, since it is thoroughly ev