of his aunt's face, which brought up inexplicably
vivid pictures of his beloved mother in the last year of her life.
Moreover, he had, in her presence, read upon the face of his beloved
lines of a soul-tragedy that was to bear him glorious fruit. For it was
actually at this time, through these means, when he was barely past
twenty-nine, that there was born in him the seed of that final effort of
his genius, to be dreamed over for twenty years, and finished only as
the shadow of death lengthened over him: his first faint vision of the
master-work to be known to the music-loving world as the Tosca Symphony.

Autumn, and the first fortnight of December, proved a busy, fruitful,
pleasant period to the workman, who was now well out of the heyday of
his twenties and glad to settle down to the steady harness-work of man
in his prime. He was beginning to be satisfied with the simple fact that
he himself was sure of his own powers; and it was more than he asked
when some incident showed how fully the outer world was beginning to
acknowledge him as one not to be judged by ordinary standards. Surely he
who has come to this at thirty has small right of complaint!

It was not often now that Monsieur Gregoriev, the professor who appeared
so worshipfully experienced to his pupils, allowed himself to reflect
upon the episode of the previous spring, when he had swallowed what he
believed to be a death-dose. Yet, in his inner consciousness, hovered
always the knowledge that he possessed a sure and unfailing refuge from
that terrible "Tosca" whence escape was certain only through extremest
measures.--Nor did the exquisite vision of the young Nathalie--his last
living remembrance of that black night--often leave him, sitting through
solitary evenings with pipe and samovar, quite unchallenged. Indeed
there were already times when it seemed as if he need hardly wait for
the excuse of the "Tosca" to turn refuge into indulgence.

Thus come we to the afternoon of the 18th of the holiday month: a gray
day, and a windy; and bitter, bitter cold; when all dreams of Christmas
cheer were frozen in the forming and replaced by some breath of the
shrivelling air. Ivan came in from his morning's work, partook of a
solitary luncheon, and was standing at his window, puffing at his pipe
and absently staring into the street, reluctant to turn to work. He had
been calculating, rather cynically, during his meal, on the meagre
returns paid by the world for an