ring of his
long and unsuccessful battle, Joseph sank back on his pillows, weak and
shaken, but evidently at the end of his confession.

Ivan was deeply moved; and in more ways than one. He pitied, profoundly;
yet he wondered at much in this ethereal, fair-haired youth that was
utterly foreign to himself.--He had had no more than Joseph to start
with; and he had not starved.--But what use in saying that?--Instead, he
returned to his chair, and sat lost in thought, rapidly adding, the
while, to the pile of cigarette stubs which were thrown upon the table
at his side. Joseph, meantime, lay still, watching him with weary
expectation, while the clock ticked slowly round the hour.

As distant Ivan Veliki boomed the half after four, and the increasing
echoes of _troika_ bells without, announced the advance of the
fashionable driving-hour, Sosha entered with tea, and lighted the big
table-lamp that presently mingled its soft radiance with the last
glimmer of the dead day. Then, when the old servitor had shuffled out,
Ivan rose, cigarette in hand, and, gazing down upon the stranger's white
face, said, gently:

"My brother, Russia has used you hardly. You must, therefore, let me,
not only a Russian, but also a fellow-workman, a lover of art, try to
make amends for your unhappiness here. I can give you your chance--a
fair one this time. It will be a joy to me as well as a duty to help you
as others helped me in my time of need.--To-night, however, you are too
weak for further emotion. You shall sleep here; and to-morrow, when you
are more yourself, we will arrange for your future.--And now, if it will
not be disturbing to you, I shall play for an hour. You have given me an
idea, and the mood to work it out.--Perhaps you will understand--or it
will soothe you--"

Joseph's face brightened. He answered, with a note of eagerness in his
still shaking voice: "Ah, I had not dared ask you to play to me.--But
indeed I shall understand!--Music brings pictures of heaven."

Thereupon Ivan seated himself at his instrument. When, as he expressed
it, he was in the mood, few men could improvise more exquisitely, with a
technique more Chopinesque, than this man whose orchestral work was so
tremendous: so filled with the rolling grandeur, the passion, the
energy, the gigantic climaxes, the seething, troubled depths, of a
nature titanic in its conceptions, overpowering in their presentment.

For a time Ivan played, so delicately, so melodious