of real greatness is over. Beethoven, and Bach and Mozart,
and Rubinstein are to be superseded by the wonderful Wagner--who hasn't
a notion of music in his head! and Serov, the imitator; and now
Gregoriev, infant prodigy, picked out of the gutter by me, from whom he
now proceeds to steal the only ideas he has about composing!--And here
I, a genius, have slaved all my life away to please a public who desert
me in an hour for this--this--"

Wine and emotion, acting together, were making the man almost maudlin.
Nicholas knew well what climax ten minutes would bring. So, with a word
or two of friendly thanks and farewell, he left the house, and sought a
familiar hotel, where he was too well known to be refused even at this
ungodly hour.

* * * * *

In five days from the time of his departure Nicholas was back in Moscow,
arriving there in the early evening, and proceeding at once to his
rooms, where he found Ivan alone--Laroche being at the theatre, at the
last performance for the season of Ostrovsky's latest farce.

As he entered the room, Nicholas read the wistful question in Ivan's
eyes, and answered it by tossing him the roll of recovered manuscript,
which, with a quivering cry of joy, Ivan caught to his breast and then
retired, precipitately, to his room, whence he did not emerge again
that night.

But, in spite of its successful recovery, and the high opinion
afterwards expressed concerning it by Ivan's own circle, it was many
years before "Day Dreams" had its initial performance: at a time when
Russia was alive with the name of Gregoriev. Moreover, at that first
performance the composer was not present. The work, result of so many
hours of devoted labor, had been hateful to him from the evening on
which he realized the enmity of his hitherto revered and beloved mentor.
Though no word on the subject of Nicholas' visit to Petersburg ever
passed between Ivan and his benefactor; though for years the semblance
of friendship was retained by the young composer and the great
_virtuoso_; three men knew well that Anton's influence over the younger
man was gone, forever. And Anton himself was bitterly aware of the
expression of half-puzzled, half-regretful disdain that he encountered
so often in Ivan's eyes. Indeed both felt, in their secret souls, that
no tone-poem ever written could be worth the price paid for this unhappy
work:--which had, nevertheless, through Anton's very jealousy given