ssian, and chose instead to present
his other novelty, Gounod's "Romeo et Juliette." Ivan, resenting the
act, promptly removed the score of "Isabella" to his own rooms; and it
cost the _impresario_ six weeks of persuasion and apology, besides a
thousand roubles' damages, before he could come to terms again with the
young composer, who, under Rubinstein's advice, was rapidly becoming
worldly wise.

In the end, the _premiere_ of the new opera was made under highly
auspicious circumstances; but, to the amazement of every one
concerned,--it being a far finer work than its predecessor,--"Isabella"
made only a moderate success. Ivan's style was still a matter of endless
discussion among the critics; and in the new opera he had let himself
out fully, repudiating all those Italian traditions which, at the time
of the composition of "The Boyar," still largely governed him. Time has
proved his wisdom, however; for, while to-day "The Boyar" is seldom
given, "Isabella" is a standard work in the _repertoire_ of every
opera-house of note in the white empire, besides having won laurels
both popular and critical in Paris and at Covent Garden.

Gregoriev bore this little disappointment far better than his friends
had feared. The long fit of depression, thoroughly broken by his attempt
at suicide, had not yet returned. The summer had been spent on a walking
tour through Finland, with Lechetizsky and Serov and he came home full
of animal vigor. On his way back he had had a fortnight in Petersburg,
and there spent two evenings in the company of Nathalie and his aunt,
who was now suffering from a secret but probably incurable malady. The
ladies, while keeping him at rather formal distance, had none the less
shown genuine interest in him and his work; and he carried away one or
two very precious memories of her who still remained the one woman in
the world for him.

During the autumn he had done some excellent work; and confided to
Rubinstein his decision that opera was, after all, not his _metier_, but
that henceforth he should spend his time on orchestral forms, with the
exception of an occasional group of songs, for which he had a special
gift. Finland, with its stretches of pine forest and gray waterways, had
made a powerful appeal to his peculiar imagination; and the "Songs of
the North" form the first of his many tone-pictures of that country.

A week or two after his return to Moscow, he began to find himself
haunted by the memory