cough again.
And indeed Joseph's eyes were already closed once more.

Ivan waited, patiently, one, two, five minutes. Then the whisper came
again: "That is a long time ago. But I remember why I didn't go to you:
why I concealed myself. It was because I was ashamed.--We all wish to
hide our dirty souls from every one--even from God, I suppose. Well,
_you_ had been really good to me; and you were my ideal: the ideal of my
best self, and of my art. How could I go to you, when you must see the
depths I had got to."

"But you are letting me see you now, and there is nothing dreadful in
it," put in Ivan, gently.

"Ah, now I _know_ I am dying. You cannot despise a man who is facing
eternity."

"I should not have despised you then, if--you had cared.--You see,
Joseph, after all, we're brothers. Your God is also mine. We both wanted
to serve Him in the same fashion; for all the arts are kin. And I knew
how great your talent was: how fine would be the expression of the best
in you."

"Ah! That is it!" Joseph sat forward, eagerly, and his faint voice
wavered. "'The expression of the best,'--that, Ivan Mikhailovitch, is
what you tried to give me the chance for: what you always have done
yourself. You were moving steadily upward. I was always plunging farther
down.--And it was my wilful choice. I think I know the truth now. My
service of God was never freely given. It was not the best I could do:
the finest work I was capable of, just for the sake of the work, and the
high thoughts it brought, to me and to others. There were more sordid
motives. I wanted--first, fame: adulation from people; secondly, no,
perhaps most of all, _money_. For of that I had never had enough for
common necessities in all my life. So, even if there had been no--woman"
(that word almost inaudibly,) "I should not have done what you believed
I could do.

"Art!--the great sun-goddess, that shines afar! She it is that gives us
the gift: the chance to work. But she knows all our hearts; and she
judges our deeds honestly. That which she accepts of us, she lays at the
feet of the Most High.--Is it well?--Thou art Abel. Thine offering of
the lamb is more pleasing than the first-fruits of the harvest. On
me,--Cain, God frowns, and the devil grins.--He is grinning through the
wine. I hear his laugh amid the clink of the coin.--He is in red; and I
flaunt my mistress in his colors. Then we dance: first for sheer
delight, with the music. Then the whips come down