nd, though he did not realize this, he was now generally
recognized as too great a genius to be longer victimized by jealousy)
he himself shone out with a kind of radiant optimism quite foreign to
his general humor. The new works were gone over, and praise, with thanks
for the dedications, given with a sincerity that was unmistakable.
Finally, his _piece de resistance_, the symphony, was played again and
yet again; first by one musician and then by another, the rest hanging
upon each note and chord and progression with the delighted appreciation
of men who understood that they were hearing a masterpiece which was to
be reverenced by generations to come, and which was to bring honor to
all Russian music. By the second evening Rubinstein, his kindly face
beaming with pleasure, was arranging the program of an extra concert in
his Vienna series to be devoted entirely to Ivan's works. Ivan promised
him the symphony for its first performance there; and Brodsky agreed at
once to play the new _concerto_, the study of which he intended to
begin, from the manuscript, on the following Monday.

It was perhaps the sharp and painful contrast of the incident that
closed this holiday, which made it afterwards shine so brightly in
Ivan's memory: a memory to which, in later days, he was to turn again
and again, as to the happiest hours of his professional life. His
success might not have been really very great.--And yet, the pressure of
Kashkine's hand upon his shoulder; the friendly light in Rubinstein's
faded eyes, the painful hand-clasp of muscular Balakirev--surely these
things showed that the old cabal against him had at last come to a
natural end? Moreover the attitude of open admiration adopted both by
Brodsky and Avelallement, both of whom lived entirely abroad, plainly
betrayed the esteem in which he was held in other lands. Yes; for one
hour--perhaps the only one of his life--Ivan felt to the full the
exaltation of success, of applause, of the intimate knowledge that,
however great his praises, they were no more than his work deserved. He
was a successful artist: his feet on one of the last steps of that
great, golden stairway, around the foot of which thronged such
struggling crowds; the serene heights of which were so little trod.--Ay,
it had been given him, his bright day! How could he complain when, at
eleven o'clock on the second night, old Sosha entered the room and
handed a telegram to his master?

Brodsky and Balakirev