"_I_, madame!"

"I said so."

Ivan flushed crimson, and then went white again. An instant later he
smiled: smiled as on the night of his initiation at the _Corps des
Cadets_, when his tormentors could not make him cry out. Without another
word he walked to the piano and seated himself in the place vacated by
Rubinstein, who, angered at the thought of having his new creation
murdered by a tyro, speedily betrayed his mood to the company, who
regrouped themselves near the instrument. After this, the silence
became absolute.

A long, tense moment, and then,--a sound broke the stillness: a long and
delicate _tremolo_, high in the treble. Instinctively, Helena Pavlovna
closed her eyes. The vibration increased, descended an octave, continued
an instant alone, and then was joined by a second tone by which the
melody was begun. It was a passage simple to read and played simply, but
with both delicacy and understanding, and without any of that _rubato_
or other affectation by which young Lechetizsky was already beginning to
mar his style. It was music pure, almost classical--the work not of a
_virtuoso_, but of a composer. And Rubinstein, leaning against the wall,
his eyes on Ivan's face, felt his humor change. His work, if better than
he had hitherto believed it, was certainly not being spoiled as yet.
Still--he must wait till the turning of the page, where began some of
those elaborate pyrotechnics that cheapen so much of his work. Could
this modest youth accomplish anything intricate? Probably not. And
yet--the fellow was calm enough. Even Rubinstein failed to divine the
extent of the strain under which he labored.

Ivan had begun the _barcarolle_ trembling. The first page successfully
accomplished, however, he lost himself a little, and began to feel the
old, musical, sixth sense creeping through him, and emerging,
gloriously, at his fingertips. Confidence increased. He had turned the
page. Ah! Here, truly, was need of it. The ensuing passage was utterly
beyond his rusty skill! One hurried glance told him that. Afterwards--he
went calmly on. Rubinstein, listening more at ease, was seen to give a
sudden start, stare an instant at the performer, and then, catching
Nicholas' eye, lift his brows in protest, to the only man who had heard
the composition before. Ivan was retaining the melody, picking it
unerringly from the mass of blurring notes, and substituting for the
difficulties of the accompaniment, a simple, graceful s