had sat at the
door of his soul's sanctuary--what of them? Nathalie, first: then
Zaremba, Anton Rubinstein, Laroche his comrade of the Conservatoire,
Ostrovsky his collaborator, Balakirev, Merelli, Joseph, finally,
Irina,--her soul still flaunting its rags before the gaze of the world,
while her brother and those student companions of her honest days and
Ivan's first success, labored in distant prison-mines, self-victims of
unsuccessful treason: what of these? Which one remained to him?--Ah!
there were two: old Nicholas, the unswerving, the devoted; and Kashkine,
who owed him nothing, who had given--was to give--so much! Why was it
that they counted so lightly in the scales against these others? Who can
say? who explain that perverseness of human nature which will not value
what it has, but must drop it by the way to stretch out unavailing hands
for the fleeting ungraspable? This, certainly, was what Ivan did; and
his face came in time so to show the bitterness of his heart, that
Joseph, rising stealthily from his unknown depth, dreaming of finding
help from his once benefactor, twice beheld the depth of Ivan's
habitual frown, and stole away without making appeal to the
heart-hungry man who now, year by year, labored alone in his desolate
palace.

The years of 1873, 1874, and 1875 passed slowly, bringing rich harvest
of Ivan's great gift to the music-world of Europe. Russia only would
have none of him; wherefore he, deeply resentful, held every individual
of his race at bay, until, at length, an incident, dreamed of long ago
but also long since despaired of, broke successfully into a solitude
that was becoming dangerous.

On Wednesday October 15th, in the last-named year, Ivan, book in hand,
sat idling over his _dejeuner_, when gray-headed Piotr entered,
quivering with excitement, to announce that a great lady waited in the
drawing-room and would not be denied a sight of His Excellency. So,
three minutes later, Ivan found himself face to face with the secret
lady of his heart.

"Nathalie!--Princess!"

"'Nathalie,' please, dear cousin.--Ivan, I am in great trouble, and I
have come to you for help."

"Help!--Trouble!" Ivan's low voice faltered. "Ah!--Can I make it right
for you?"

The woman before him shook her head, sadly. "No one can ever make it
right, Ivan."

"What is it, Nathalie?" In his secret mind, he was just murmuring her
name, over and over again, and blessing the woe that had brought her to
him.