tist. From this time Ivan took in regularly a musical paper or
magazine, and so followed attentively his adopted son's career. The
latter, however, knew nothing of his kind benefactor until, later,
Ivan's name also appeared in the papers. His discourse at the Academy
led to his being traced by his adopted son, who at once wrote him a
letter, beginning with the words, "My dear father." It was a letter
full of simple, boyish sentiments, through which broke at intervals
the natural fun and playful humor of the artist. He told Ivan
everything concerning himself; how he had travelled in many countries,
accompanied always by his mother, to whom he had always to give an
account of his actions as near the truth as possibly could be. He had
already given concerts before crowned heads, and had received several
orders which he was allowed to wear only on Sundays; the other days of
the week they were locked up by his mother. He had earned a good deal
of money, but he was not permitted to spend much. Mamma gave him
every day a five-shilling piece for pocket-money; the rest she put by
to buy back her little house which "old Raize" had robbed her of. He,
therefore, to make more money, gave music-lessons and played
accompaniments for artists. This was well paid, particularly of late,
when he had fallen in with a little artist, a new singer, who paid
splendidly. She was said to be the wife of Felix Kaulmann, the rich
banker.

When he came to this passage Ivan's heart began to beat. He laid down
the letter, then took it up again, and read it with renewed attention.

"This girl is a mixture of Muse and Maenad," wrote Arpad. "Now she is a
petulant child, the next minute a wild Amazon; a born artist, full of
genius, yet she is not likely ever to rise above mediocrity. She is
full of intelligence and life, and with this often as stupid as a
donkey. There is no doubt she could attain an unenviable notoriety,
but she shrinks from it, for although she conducts herself like a
courtesan, I would take my oath she is in reality as innocent as the
child she really is. She is very trying to me, full of mischief and
petulance, and this because I treat her to no soft manners, but scold
her well for being so naughty. If you could only see, dear papa, what
a splendid master I am, always serious, no frivolity allowed! Now I
have photographed myself for you, have I not? Do not think, however,
that I would have scrawled all over my paper this monologue abo