THE GODS ARRIVE
At this unprecedented spectacle Nicholas halted, abruptly, uttering some
unintelligible exclamation. And Ivan, deep as he was buried beneath his
weight of despair, heard the sound, and reluctantly raised himself, at
the same time grasping the letter anew, till the intruder's attention
was reattracted by the rustle.
"Aha!" said he, softly; laying a gentle hand on the young man's
shoulder. "It is thy father that is gone?"
"Gone? My father? Where?" muttered Ivan, stupidly.
"You are in grief. Is it the death of some one near?"
Then, perceiving at last the drift of his friend's sympathy, Ivan burst
into a harsh, unpleasant laugh. "Oh yes: it is a death. It is the death
of a very ancient vanity of mine: a silly idea that I--that I--had a
talent!"
Rubinstein's friendly face took on an expression of slow bewilderment,
which began presently to soften into a concern whereat, once more, his
companion uttered his mirthless laugh.
"Oh, I'm not mad, Nicholas Nikolaitch!--You remember my old symphony,
and Litoritch's criticism when I sent it up to him?--Well, I was fool
enough then not to understand: to go on believing that I--could write
music!"
"Precisely as you can," returned the other, roughly.
Ivan's face quivered--and softened. "No. I will tell thee, my friend!
Ten days ago I finished a symphonic poem:--a thing I've been working on
for months.--I didn't dare play it to you. I wanted an opinion
absolutely unbiassed; so I sent the manuscript to--to Zaremba and--your
brother. Well, they gave me what I asked for.--Here's the letter!" and
Ivan, stretching his white lips into a smile, tossed the crumpled paper
to Rubinstein.
That burly man seated himself nearer the light, and began to read. As
his eyes rapidly followed the familiar writing, his face grew crimson
with slow, unwonted anger. His thick neck swelled. His lips were
compressed, as if he feared to allow the words behind them to escape.
But when he had reached the signature, he leaped to his feet and broke
into one of those torrents of profanity which, rare as they were,
unfailingly betokened some vigorous action to follow.
By the time Rubinstein's immediate rage was spent, Ivan had regained his
own self-possession, save for the gnawing pain that was to lie at his
heart throughout many a long week and month. Nicholas' mood, however,
was far from calm. He knew, better than any one save his own brother,
the extent of their protégé's magnificent talent. He had heard many a
fragment of the tone-poem, during its long progress towards completion;
and, unconsciously, he had judged it enough to understand the injustice
of that petty and malicious letter; doubtful though he still was as to
its immediate motive. True, Nicholas had too often suffered from his
brother's tormenting jealousy to be by any means blind to Anton's fault.
Yet it seemed a preposterous thing that a man with a reputation
world-wide, built on the double foundation of creation and
interpretation, should descend to the meanness of persecuting a mere
boy: one whose foot was not yet firmly fixed on the second round of the
great ladder upon which he himself towered so securely and so
high!--And yet--had not this same belittling blemish been the bugbear of
his own, generous existence? Was anything impossible in one whom he had
known again and again to stoop to the pettiest forms of personal malice
and vindictiveness.
The big-hearted brother could afford indulgence where only he himself
was concerned. But this idea that his close comrades must be
abused,--this was too much, indeed! The rejection of the
symphony--anything but an amateurish piece of work--still rankled in
him, almost as bitterly as in Ivan. And now this outrage--when any one
could see that the boy was fairly starving for a word of the
encouragement he had more than earned--ah! it was intolerable, at last!
In the following hour there passed much further conversation between the
two; but Rubinstein, while professing every sympathy, never hinted at
the idea that was taking shape in his mind. When he left the bedroom at
last, Ivan felt that, in spite of himself, he should get some sleep; for
Nicholas had assured him solemnly that, when "The Boyar" should be
finished, and the libretto, to be provided by Ostrovsky, properly
polished, he would himself arrange for its production during the ensuing
winter season. And while Ivan stood, dazed and silent, wondering if such
a thing could really be, this great-hearted friend of Russia and Russian
art, had seized him by the hand, left a vigorous pound of encouragement
on his shoulder, and was gone--shouting, anxiously, as he perceived the
relative positions of the hands of his watch.
Next morning, before Ivan had risen from his protracted sleep,
Rubinstein's pupils at the Conservatoire were undergoing three hours of
remarkable instruction. Their burly master cursed them roundly when they
failed to point out to him a given number of chords of the ninth and
seventh, augmented or diminished, in a selected fugue of that mad
iconoclast Bach; or to mark two dozen examples of canon and counterpoint
in the first act of the latest opera by the staid pillar of classicism,
Richard Wagner! After which betrayal of his mental state, the master
leaped to his feet, jammed his ancient hat over his eyes, called out
that his classes for the next three days were to take their instruction
from Balakirev, Gregoriev or Laroche; and then, informing them only that
he should return within the week, he rushed out of the building. A
convenient droschky carried him to his apartment, where he gathered
together a bagful of clothes, scribbled Ivan a fictitious explanation of
his journey, and was soon on his way to the station, where, by a
miracle, he caught the Petersburg express.
* * * * *
Two nights later, at half-past one o'clock, Anton the world-famed
returned to his rooms from a supper which had followed one of his rare
Petersburg recitals. He was in excellent humor; for his success,
throughout both sections of the evening, had been precisely to his
taste. Seven times had he been forced to encore, before the enraptured
audience would leave the concert-hall; and at Count Lichtenstein's--the
house of the German ambassador, he had been lionized till even he was
satisfied. Wherefore was he in excellent humor before, entering his
living-room, his eyes fell upon the unexpected figure of his brother,
who stood silently awaiting him. Nor was Anton long in reading the
significance of his visitor's expression, before which his own changed
utterly. His eyes were dull, his mouth grimly straight as he asked,
harshly:
"Well, what is it now?"
"You should gather from your conscience the reason for my highly
uncomfortable journey," returned Nicholas, in the drawl which never
failed to rouse his brother to fury. "It's your miserably selfish
treatment of young Gregoriev and his work that's brought me up here so
inconveniently."
Anton turned on his brother, his eyes blazing with swift rage. But
Nicholas, with a single glance from his calm, mocking, but deeply
penetrating eyes, once more arrested him. "This boy trusts you so,
Anton, believes so utterly in your good faith, the impartial judgment of
you and your worm, Zaremba, that even you, whose very blood is green,
would be moved if you could hear him.--However--where's the manuscript
of the boy's tone-poem?"
"'_Tone-poem!_'--Eureka!--Do you imagine that it actually is music?--as
he believes it, no doubt, to be?--Still, the rot is safe enough--where
you'll not soon lay your hands on--"
The voice of the Jew was silenced--perforce; for the reason that hands
were laid upon him: hands heavy and powerful, full of the righteous
anger of a strong man driven beyond himself. And when the hero of the
recent supper-party finally lay back in his own chair, panting and
wriggling with pain, his mood had changed, perceptibly.
"Have you dared," demanded Nicholas, in a voice low and trembling, "to
burn the first masterpiece of a genius?"
"I told you it was safe."
"Do you imagine I believe--Ah well! I take it back to Moscow with me,
to-morrow."
At these words, the smouldering fire in the other's wretched heart
leaped up again, and he cried, furiously: "You lie! It is _not_ a
masterpiece!--Even Zaremba said that every idea in it had been stolen
from me!--The thing shall never be played until _I_ choose!"
"Anton, are you mad?--Can you actually heed anything said to you by the
jackal who endures your blackmail?--Has your infernal jealousy reached
the point where you don't hesitate at _crime_?--My God!--My bro--"
"Good Heavens, Nicholas! Since when have you gone into melodrama?" The
voice was pettish, but the listener was not slow to catch a tremor of
discomfort under its attempted loftiness. "As if I cared!--or need to
fear such stuff as Gregoriev's!--Go to Zaremba, if you like, and tell
him I sent you for the manuscript.--Much good may it do you!--Oh, yes,
take the thing! Have it played! Hear the fools howl over it and praise
it! The day 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 Ivan
the knowledge that he stood already more than one round above his
fellows on the great ladder of attainment.
In one way, indeed, the young man had hardly needed this active proof of
his ability; for, for some time now, there had been growing in him a
quality much needed by his kind: a stern, dogged, ineradicable belief in
himself and his eventual recognition. Rooted, as, to the shame of
mankind, has been the lot of so many of the world's true great, in the
deep bitterness of non-recognition; growing, sturdily, in the midst of
beating storms and freezing snows of jealousy, malice, criticism
incredibly stupid, misfortunes persistent and discouraging; such natures
as these are bound at last to blossom, gloriously, in the sunlight of
success; and live, nourished by the quiet dews of appreciation; unless,
indeed, as in certain cases, the growth has been too delicate, too
exquisite, too sensitive to outlive the probation years, and fades
before it has come into maturity, while the bloom of full achievement is
yet in the bud. But Ivan was not of these last. His stubbornness was
great; and he labored on, doggedly, sore as was his heart, till June
brought release from his labors at the Conservatoire. Then he betook
himself and his few belongings joyously back to Vevey, where
surroundings of natural beauty, rest, isolation, the absence of
unwelcome tasks, gave him back his strength, and restored both his hope
and his ambition.
During this period his great task was always "The Boyar." But, in the
intervals between his stretches of regular work, he undertook certain
lighter things, based on themes jotted down in his note-book at odd
moments. It was, indeed, during this summer,--though Kashkine has
erroneously attributed them to a later year, that he produced the
celebrated "Songs of the Steppes," those "Chansons sans Paroles," which
the world hums still, even after a vogue which would, in six months,
have killed anything less original, less intangibly charming and
uncommon. These finished--and the sheets of manuscript were printed,
eighteen months later, almost without change--he caught a sudden fever
of entomology: hunted daily for specimens, but preserved, eventually,
only six of his captures: a moth, silver and green; a butterfly of
steely, iridescent blue; a solemn, black-coated cricket; a bee bound
round with the five golden rings of Italy; a tiny, rainbow-hued
humming-bird, found dead in a fast-shut moon-flower; and, finally, a
slender, bright-winged dragon-fly. These, humanely chloroformed and
pasted upon cards, Ivan studied, wondering at his own interest; nor
understood its reason till, by the dark and tortuous ways of
unconscious cerebration, there sprang from his brain, Minerva-like, the
six dances which are incorporated in the most charming ballet of his
time the famous "Rêve d'Été." When, a year later, immediately before its
first production, Monsieur Venara, _maître de ballet_ of the Royal
Opera, asked the composer for a special _pas_ for his favorite _première
danseuse_, Ivan meditated, and returned in spirit to the fields of
Vevey, hunting for one more sprite of field or wood. In vain. He could
think of nothing but an old familiar hedge of eglantine. And to that,
finally, was written the "Rose Waltz" to which Mademoiselle Pakrovsky,
Venara's "discovery," later danced her way through La Scala to Paris,
that end and aim of the dancer's dreams.
In September, the musical journal of Moscow announced the return of
young Monsieur Gregoriev, a distant relative of the Prince
Procureur-General of that name, who was winning no small reputation as a
composer of light music, and who would resume his professorial duties at
the Conservatoire. It was, moreover, rumored that the summer of Monsieur
Gregoriev had been no idle one; but that, he having turned for the first
time to a serious subject, Moscow would that winter have the opportunity
of gauging the young man's talent at the Grand Theatre, when, in
November, Signor Merelli's Italian troupe should begin their season of
winter opera.
For once in a way, that the rule might be proved, the greater part of
this bumptious paragraph was true. Furthermore, as had not been said,
Ivan's name was to appear twice on the programme of the first orchestral
concert of the season, over which the two Rubinsteins were now working
busily. It had been by main force that Nicholas kept two spaces blank
till the return of Ivan from his holiday. But Anton, who was in a
dejected mood, made no great objection when Ivan, filled with a
strange, new sensation of pride, wrote down the titles of two
compositions under his name, on the manuscript programme handed to him,
one evening, in his new abode.
For, this fall, Ivan had taken a long stride towards independence. In
August Shrâdik had returned to Moscow, to remain throughout the winter.
But young Laroche, whose family had lately lost a large fortune, was now
in no position to leave the Rubinstein apartment, where his expenses
were very light. Moreover, Wieniawski the pianist had rented the rooms
on the fourth floor; and both he nor Shrâdik could be counted on to
maintain a duet scales and exercises during the entire day. Wherefore
poor Laroche began to seek the sympathetic stillness of the "Cucumber";
and Ivan, after two days in a temporary closet of six feet by eight, set
out in search of an abode to fit his income.
This proved a matter less difficult than he had feared. In fact, within
a week he was joyously settled, in a suite of two rooms, with an
antechamber and a cubby for his servant, who was, indeed, none other
than old Sósha, a Gregoriev serf, who, on the day of the proclamation of
freedom, more than five years before, had hurried forth from Konnaia
Square as from the bottomless pit. For years he had led a wandering
life, missing his former companions and comparatively easy existence,
but too stubborn to return to a certain beating, and the plentiful
curses of the Prince. When, then, he one day encountered Ivan issuing
from a second contemplation of his new quarters, the old man rushed to
him as towards a preserver Heaven-sent; and Ivan was but too glad to
accept the charge.
Sósha, always, like his generation, a slave at heart, would gladly have
served his young master without wages and to the death. But Ivan,
recently amazed by the announcement of a further increase in his
salary, which now amounted to the princely sum of eighteen hundred
roubles a year, offered his whilom servant wages so good that the fellow
thenceforth actually refrained from any commission on the marketing and
those other household purchases which Ivan was glad to leave to him.
Thus it came about that Monsieur Gregoriev was installed in a home of
his own, in which to maintain his longed-for gods. Their ghosts
appeared, in the company of Nicholas Rubinstein, on the night when this
stanch friend came to tell Ivan that, instead of the brief _passacaglia_
which he had modestly offered as his first piece on the concert
programme, it had been decided--on a hearing entirely arranged by
Nicholas, to make Monsieur Gregoriev the chief figure of the evening, by
playing his first symphony--"Youth," as the _pièce de résistance_ of the
first half! Furthermore, he should still be represented in the second by
the little "Sea Picture" already arranged for. Lastly,--and here, at
last, Nicholas spoke with some faint hesitation, it was Anton's express
wish to resign the conductor's baton, during the interpretation of the
symphony, to the composer himself!
"But--but--good Heaven!" stammered Ivan, in a flutter of excitement and
incredulity, "it is impossible! Conduct!--I cannot do it! It--it is
impossible!"
The trouble in Rubinstein's mind now stepped forth to his face. "Could
you not try, Ivan?--I want so much to see you and Anton quite
reconciled. And he has suggested this, I think, to prove his
friendship."
(Simple-hearted brother! Why could he not remember that Anton was as
fully aware as himself of Ivan's inexperience in the art, seemingly so
simple, really inordinately difficult, of leading an orchestra?)
Poor Ivan was as innocent in the matter as Nicholas himself, however:
yes, more so. For, never having attempted it, he failed to realize the
firmness, the decision, the executive ability required by him who would
hold a large body of musicians in intelligent control. At this distance,
the matter of conducting his symphony--the orchestration of which he
knew by heart--seemed to hold out few difficulties. He considered, a
little, in silence; and then proceeded to discuss the prospect with his
visitor.
There were still four weeks before the concert. Work could be begun
immediately. Certainly, during that time, working every day with the men
who were to play his work, he could gain enough confidence, enough
familiarity with the difficult points of this one, familiar composition,
to carry him through the final event. So, at least, it seemed to the two
who, in their eagerness, were leaving out of their calculation the most
important factor in the case: Ivan's unconquerable shyness: his
excessive modesty: the nervous self-consciousness never yet tried in so
keen a way. But to-night Ivan was wrapped in a dream. A golden mist of
hope gratified, ideals realized, ambition met, hid from him every ugly
reality. Consent to Anton's wretched scheme was easily given; and then
the conversation turned to a theme even more delightful: the forthcoming
production of "The Boyar," to which, the concert over, all the energies
of the composer must be turned.
Later that night Ivan, left alone, dazed and tremulous at the fortune
now hovering within his grasp, laid upon the altar of his gods his first
fruits of success.--Long, long after, when the chimera had become a form
radiantly real, Ivan looked back upon this night as perhaps the happiest
of his life. That it should be spent in solitude, seemed to him most
natural. It would have been abnormal to him to seek companionship in an
hour of exaltation: desecration to drown the pure delights of the
intellect in the artificial ecstasy of alcohol. No. He sat quietly in
his leathern chair, or paced rapidly about the room, occasionally
seating himself at the piano and rippling off portions of the work that
was to be judged at last by the dread tribunal, whose final verdict was
not to be reversed: the supreme court of the general public.
To an on-looker, Ivan's behavior would have seemed commonplace enough.
But he was moving through shadowy heavens, star-lit vaults, to which he
had just attained, wherein he floated, the equal of those whom he had
hitherto worshipped: an inhabitant of the kingdom of the gods, from
whose height he could listen to the echo of his name, cried below by the
earth-millions, repeated all around him, in tones of brotherhood, from
the pale spirits of the surrounding great. And there Ivan knew that his
songs were not of a day, not of a century, but for all time; but should
stand as the perfect musical expression of the soul of the great, white,
desolate country of his birth. Such his achievement, which, in this
hour, he knew to be good. And so, as dawn dimmed the golden light of his
lamps, Ivan, overcome with weariness, his exaltation fallen, the wine of
his delight gone flat and stale, crept away to bed, passing into the
transitional sleep whence he must wake to the noon-day light of the
stolid, patient, working world.
Nicholas, having won Ivan's consent to his brother's plan, and sending
his protégé the first summons to rehearse his numbers with the
orchestra, put the affair into Anton's hands. But Ivan, ridiculously
dreading criticism, and the exposure of his awkwardness in handling the
unaccustomed baton, possessed also of the senseless idea that, on the
final day, the thing must go of itself, "somehow,"--daily put off the
matter of rehearsal. His excuses were endless and feeble; but they were
all of them readily accepted by Anton, who was now conducting his
rehearsals alone. It was actually within seven days of the concert
before Nicholas, learning the real state of affairs, rushed off, in a
frenzy, to his brother, to seek an explanation and voice a protest. But
Anton's manner was baffling. He was gentle, courteous, and wonderfully
sympathetic with Ivan for the occupations that had prevented him from
appearing at rehearsal. He showed his brother a dozen of Ivan's hasty
notes of excuse, as he said, soothingly:
"Come, Nikolai, come! What does it signify? Ivan Mikhailovitch is
working very hard; and rehearsals are bothersome things. I shall smooth
away the difficulties and have the orchestra perfectly familiar with his
symphony--which, by-the-way, goes very well. And he will have his back
to the audience, and may do what he likes. The orchestra will get
through; for the concertmeister--Gruening, you know, can manage alone,
perfectly.--Don't bother the young man. All will go well!"
Nicholas heard him out standing quite still, gnawing at his mustache
ends, and staring, absent-mindedly, into a vague distance, that saw
nothing of the expression of gentle inquiry that covered the nervousness
in Anton. Yet Nicholas' sudden apprehension seemed, on reflection, to be
unwarranted. Certainly, thought he, Anton's attitude towards Ivan had
completely changed. Was he, at last, ashamed, and trying to obliterate
the memory of his jealousy? Certainly so it would seem. And thus, when
Nicholas presently left his brother, it was with the sincerest
expressions of gratitude; though, more than once, during his return
walk, there came to him an unsolicited doubt as to--to--what? The
absolute openness of Anton's actions?--Scarcely that; and yet so much
like that that no other explanation could be found to fit the quickly
suppressed pang.
Pity, truly, that Nicholas could not have watched his brother for the
fifteen minutes after his departure! During five of these, the great
pianist stood where he had been left, staring down at the floor, an
expression in his eyes compounded of many emotions. But presently his
thoughts resolved themselves. For, throwing back his head, he gave a
laugh: a laugh long, rather loud, but replete with anything in the world
save mirth: suggesting strongly, indeed, the savageness of the frown
which presently replaced it, when, drumming a scale upon the edge of the
table in front of him, he muttered: "Conduct a symphony played by a full
concert orchestra without a single rehearsal!--Good Heavens! Nicholas is
turning into a fool!"
All things considered, there was certainly a grain of truth in Anton
Rubinstein's assertion. Still, foolish as Nicholas may have shown
himself over the matter, what was his unwisdom compared to that of Ivan,
the proposed hero of the forthcoming inevitable _fiasco_? How to explain
such behavior on the part of one who was, from the crown of his head to
his toes, thoroughly a musician, a lover of all things musical, even
Kashkine, intimate and blind adorer of Gregoriev as his biography of
Ivan shows him to be, never discovered. Whether his native shyness
simply put off an evil hour as long as possible: whether, full of the
excitement of giving the final touches to his new work--a business which
always, throughout his life, made Ivan oblivious of everything
else,--rendered him really indifferent to the success of his symphony,
or whether he really believed conducting to be merely a matter of waving
a baton at each body of instruments as they entered or left the
_ensemble_, the principal actor of this little drama never explained.
Certainly, at the time, it did not occur to him to divine any purpose in
the Herr Direktor's easy acceptance of the flimsy excuses that he sent
to rehearsal after rehearsal. Suffice it to state that Ivan's first
appearance in the greenroom of the Grand Theatre--scene of the
much-discussed concert--was made at half-past seven o'clock on the
evening of October 16th: forty-five minutes before the overture was
announced to begin. Even now, he found himself the last to arrive of the
little group who were either to take part, or had some professional
interest in, the evening's performance. These greeted him jovially; but,
after he had drunk the glass of sherry pressed upon him, he was drawn
one side by two friends, Laroche and Nicholas Rubinstein, whose faces
had sobered into undisguised anxiety. Rubinstein spoke first:
"Are you too nervous to glance through the first page or two of the
score, here?" he demanded, his eyes taking quick review of Ivan's
immaculate costume and rather pallid face.
Ivan's answering laugh caught Anton's ear. "Nervous!" he echoed. "I
hadn't thought about it.--I know the thing by heart; still--where is the
score?"
Laroche answered silently by holding out to him the thick, leather-bound
sheets of the "Youth" symphony; at the same time pointing out to Ivan
that, instead of third, he was to come second on the programme:
Mademoiselle Pavario having demanded that she give her _aria_ just
before the intermission, for the sake of the probable encore.
Somehow, as Laroche quietly explained this fact, and Ivan, opening his
familiar book, discovered for the first time certain blue-pencillings,
made therein by Rubinstein during the rehearsals, to indicate those
passages where some body of instruments were weak, or needed special
watching, his heart began to throb, unsteadily. Second by second his
desperate unfamiliarity with the whole thing, his utter ignorance of the
tone and temper of the men he was to conduct--their respective abilities
and faults--were revealing themselves to him. And, presently, he made
for Anton, with a hoarse request that a few of the marks in the first
movement, at least, be explained to him. Rubinstein was all courtesy,
all geniality, all encouragement. But he overdid his part just enough to
allow the first quick stab of doubt--or of understanding--to pierce the
poor boy's rapidly crumbling barrier of confidence. When, at last, the
director was called to his waiting audience, Ivan sat on, like a stone,
his eyes riveted on the first page of the score,--which might have
contained pictures of butterflies upon it for all he knew. His heart was
palpitating like a woman's. His head was in a sick whirl. Then, in the
horrid silence in which he sat, a voice from out of the far away
addressed him:
"Herr Gregoriev, they are ready for you!"
Without a word, his face set, his eyes brilliant, he rose, mechanically,
gave his score into the hands of the librarian, who, for ten minutes,
had been nervously awaiting it, and then walked woodenly up the passage
to the wings. Here somebody grasped his arm and held him for an instant,
whispering something unintelligible into his ears. Some seconds, or
minutes, or hours, after this, there struck into his eyes the white
glare of the footlights. Then a thin sprinkling of applause rose to meet
his slight, mechanical bow; and, at the same instant, he perceived,
sitting in the right-hand stage-box in the first tier, the form of his
father: his white face barred by the black line of his mustache; the
frame of hair above, all iron gray streaked with white. Beyond this
figure rose a dead wall of black and colored patch-work emphasized by
featureless white splashes; the whole punctuated, here and there, with
gleams of light betokening jewels.
The hand-clapping died away. Ivan turned, mounted his desk, and lifted
the black baton. He rapped, once, and beheld sixty pairs of gleaming
eyes raised to him: rapped twice, and saw thirty bows lifted in air.
Then he glanced at the first, open page of his score.--It was simply a
horrible, gray blur, from which not a note, not a mark, would detach
itself.--And he wondered, frantically, how in the world his symphony
began:--loudly or softly? with violins or with trumpets? The seconds
that followed were the longest of his life. Then the concertmeister,
sitting below, gave an audible murmur; and, together, the violins and
the woodwinds began the first, long-drawn-out notes of the introduction.
Heavens! It had begun! He was in for it--hopelessly. Somehow or other
these terrible men must be kept playing.--How? By whom? Again he looked
at his score, and slowly turned a page. The sound of clarinets smote his
ear. They were actually getting on, then.--Good! Out of the mists of his
terror, there came, at last, an idea: the wild notion that here, now,
came a quick _crescendo_ and climax. With a wide sweep of his baton he
suddenly broke in upon the orchestra and demanded the _tutti_. Gruening,
violently tremoloing, swore, helplessly. The men stared. Wildly, once
more, Ivan indicated full orchestra. So there came one, furious,
discordant crash, as all the instruments, obeying, in their customary,
hypnotic manner, the motion of their leader, came in, each with his
first notes, no matter how far ahead of the present measure they might
be. The noise was, truly, something hideous! The men themselves grew
panic-stricken; and each group strove madly to bring their particular
theme out of the general chaos; thereby increasing, tenfold, the
frightful _charivari_.[1]
From behind, from the vast audience which, till now, had maintained an
amazed stillness, there began to sound little bursts of
laughter--followed by a spluttering streak of hisses which were drowned
in increasing shouts of amusement. The thing was really too absurd for
legitimate disapproval.
Ivan's heart stopped beating. In all his mind there remained but one
thought: that Michael Gregoriev, his father, was a witness of this
scene! Yet he felt the touch upon his arm: he was sensible of the kindly
whisper in his ear. Docilely he followed Nicholas off the stage--away
from this climactic _fiasco_ of all his wretched series of failures. And
Anton, watching the outcome of the scene he had planned with so much
gusto, felt a sudden pang of intense pity, of remorse, of generosity,
shoot through his shrivelled heart.
Two minutes later, the Herr Direktor was on the stage, apologizing
earnestly for the sudden illness of young Monsieur Gregoriev, who had
turned faint as the result of overwork. And then, turning to the
demoralized orchestra, he restored them, by a word and a look, to their
usual order, whence, three seconds later, rose again the first long,
sweet strains of the first movement of the symphony, which, this time,
was received by the audience with frigid politeness, and many inaudible
comments on the shocking management that had admitted a drunken man to
the stage before _them_--the cream of Moscow's society!
Moscow society, indeed; but also representatives from other walks of
life. For, as his son retreated from the scene of his disgrace, the
solitary occupant of the right-hand stage _loge_, wrapping himself, face
and body, in a concealing cloak, walked rapidly towards the street, and
had soon left far behind the Grand Theatre, and his last dream of
reconciliation with his son.
* * * * *
Late in the afternoon of the following day, the directors of the Moscow
Conservatoire of Music held a spontaneous meeting, which the presence of
four men over a quorum rendered formal. It was for the purpose of
deciding the question of obtaining a new junior-class professor of
harmony. The matter was hotly debated: several speakers maintaining
that, after the affair of the night before, it would be impossible for
Monsieur Gregoriev to retain either the interest or the respect of his
pupils. It was remarkable, however, that only one man--a person who had
never met the person under discussion, referred to the prevalent rumor
of intemperance.
The door to the directors' room remained shut for two, ominous hours.
But when the inmates appeared again in the light of day, their general
expression was cheerful; and the list of Conservatoire professors
remained unchanged. Ivan was to be spared this final humiliation. For
not only Nicholas, but Anton Rubinstein himself, fought gallantly for
his retention. And it was undoubtedly the influence of the great
_virtuoso_ which turned the scale in his favor.--Moreover, it may be
surmised, and by no means without justification, that, even had Ivan
temporarily lost his position, the following winter would have seen it
once more offered to him; though his acceptance might have proved a more
doubtful matter. As it was, his gratitude towards the various members of
the committee was as deep as it was silent.
Certainly, without this possible, additional unhappiness, Ivan's cup of
misery was, for the moment, full. During the morning after the fateful
concert many people--all of them cruel, many wantonly malicious, knocked
at Ivan's door. Two only were admitted--neither of whom could come under
the general category. One of these was Nicholas Rubinstein; the other
Laroche. Probably, of all the world, only these two understood Ivan at
this time. But their understanding and their love stood them in poor
stead now. He whom they sought to comfort lay deep in a hell of his own,
from the very threshold of which they were barred away. Later, through
the hours of the meeting--which Ivan silently divined--Laroche remained
alone with him. And Nicholas' return, with news of victory, in some
measure lessened his agony of shame. But it was weeks before he was
known to show his face outside of his own rooms or the Conservatoire;
for he gave way, unresisting, to the morbidness always lying in wait for
him. And all Rubinstein's upbraidings, all the eloquent logic of
Laroche, could move him to nothing but the reiterated statement that,
years before, at his court-martial, he had been conscious of no fault
for which to lower his head; whereas this time--alas!--he had been
guilty of many more than one: of laziness; of preposterous vanity;
finally, worst of all, of that unpardonable cowardice and
self-consciousness whereby he had lost his final hope of scraping
through the ordeal--by means of his native wit and the experience and
influence of the concertmeister Gruening.
In the end, Nicholas,--always, forever, this good Rubinstein, set to
work to manufacture a bomb which should, in one instant, blow to
fragments the walls of Ivan's self-constructed hermitage, and bring him
forth again into the free light of heaven--and work. And this difficult
task he did, as a matter of fact, accomplish. For it was on an evening
in the latter half of November that he and Laroche entered Ivan's rooms
at the customary hour, but with new light in their eyes. Waiting only
till the fire was replenished and pipes drawing well, Nicholas observed,
between puffs:
"Well, I've had my final talk with Merelli; and I have brought with me,
for signing, the contracts covering the production, to be made on New
Year's night, of your opera, 'The Boyar.'"
Ivan stiffened for an instant; then sank dully back, saying, without a
whit of expression in his voice: "Don't tease me any further about old
visions, Nikolai.--Even from you that comes hard."
Nicholas' reply was to draw from his pocket a thin roll of paper, which,
separating into duplicate, printed sheets, each bearing at its end the
spluttering signature of the _impresario_, he spread out on Ivan's knee.
As the young man, with changing, wondering, finally uplifted,
expression, ran slowly through the document, Nicholas prevented any
possible expression of obligation by a running fire of comment and
explanation.
"Won your spurs, you see, Ivan!--Royalties not great; but there'll
certainly be a thousand or two for you.--Give you a great push, now that
you've done what we all have to go through before we get there.--I did
it, you know, years ago, in Hamburg!--Simply stopped at the second
movement of the Italian symphony and walked off the stage.--Knees
shaking so I couldn't stand up.--Even Anton lost himself in the Leipsic
Tönhalle, once, in the middle of his own _cadenza_ to a Beethoven
sonata:--had played it a hundred times, I suppose; tried it twice, and
then fairly ran out of the room.--Laroche there, can't expect any real
luck till he's done it too.--What form'll you take it in,
Grigory?--Hey?--Finished, Ivan?--Well, I'm convinced that it is as well
as we can do for you the first time. So you'd better sign it now--using
us for witnesses--and I'll carry 'em back to Merelli myself, to-morrow."
So Ivan, lips twitching, hands trembling very much, put a shaky
signature in each space indicated below Merelli's sprawling Italian
dashes, while Nicholas and little Laroche looked on with shining eyes.
Thereupon began the era of a new and difficult experience. Healthy as
was the occupation, Ivan wished a hundred times in those ensuing weeks
that he had been seized with an apoplexy before ever he had put his name
to the contract that gave him into Merelli's hands.--As a matter of
fact, the ordeal was one trying enough for nerveless men. But to Ivan it
was simply a process of refined torture, in the course of which every
one of his petted peculiarities of style, the most cherished of his
situations, the choicest of his originalities, were ruthlessly cut,
altered, or swept calmly away:--a perfectly correct and artistic
proceeding, and agreeable to every one except the author.
No cutting of rehearsals now! In fact, for his reputation and the life
of his suffering opera, Ivan dared not be away from the opera-house
during a single hour of that hurried preparation. For, in those days, no
composers had so little right in Russia as Russians: no music was so
neglected, so criticised, so under-estimated in the land of snows as
that produced by the great pioneers of the highest of the arts. And yet,
in that same Russia, any nonsense whatever that came out of Italy, got
immediate hearing and sickening praise. The opera-houses of every city
were given over, during the season, to Italian troupes. And if these did
occasionally consent to perform some native work, it was always on an
"off" night, with third-rate members of the company, in cast-off,
inappropriate costumes, surrounded by worn-out scenery, and accompanied
by the "ballet" orchestra--which contained about half the regulation
instruments.
Most of these humiliations, it soon appeared, were to fall to the lot of
the unfortunate "Boyar."--Still, New Year's night usually promised a
good-sized audience; and the chorus was actually to be put into newly
designed costumes. But the singers had considered, long ago, that plans
for the winter were finished. Therefore this was a preposterous time to
begin rehearsals for a work entirely new. The prima-donna and the first
tenor simply scouted the idea of applying themselves to learn new
rôles--and in a _Russian_ opera! Merelli must be out of his head to set
about such a thing!--Ivan, it is true, might have been encouraged had he
heard the opinion of his work expressed by Merelli to his refractory
singers.--It was a masterpiece; the finest opera, be it Italian, French
or Russian, of the decade! etc, etc.--And indeed, had the _impresario_
not actually believed something of this sort, no pleadings of Rubinstein
would ever have got it accepted at this time of year. But the parts as
they were finally cast might well have discouraged a man more tranquil
and more experienced than Ivan: who, moreover, would have regarded as
insane the person telling him that, in his secret heart, more than one
member of the troupe beside Merelli thought the opera under preparation
far ahead of the usual run of saccharine Italian concoctions habitually
raved over by the sentimental world of the time.
But alas! What wretchedness it was to listen, day by day, from his empty
box, to the throaty warblings of Finocchi--whose pronunciation of
Russian was as near Chinese or Hebrew as the Slavic tongue: to argue
vainly with La Menschikov, the soprano, who, to Ivan's unbounded
disgust, used every vocal trick invented by the melodramatic Italians,
from a revolting _tremolo_, and a barefaced _falsetto_ to an
incorrigible persistence in the _appoggiatura_, an affectation
peculiarly unadapted to Ivan's rich, strong style. Many a concerted
passage, moreover, did he, in silent despair, alter to suit the stubborn
inabilities of the singers, who insisted that the composer knew nothing
of the possibilities of the human voice:--a criticism, indeed, passed
more than once on Ivan's later works, and by those who knew whereof they
spoke. The climax came on a late December afternoon, when, after a three
hours' struggle with a single passage, the contralto went into
hysterics, the soprano flew into a rage that promised to keep her off
the boards for a week, and Finocchi retired to his dressing-room vowing
to resign his part. The cause of this united rebellion was the rhythm of
a quartet in the third act--by far the best concerted piece in the
opera--in which the two high voices sang four eighth notes against
triplets in the base.
This passage had, up till now, been held in abeyance by Merelli, who had
foreseen difficulty. And, now that it was reached, it proved a reef
indeed. For, of the four singers, only the basso had any conception of
time. Thus when Merelli, in despair, came apologetically to Ivan to
suggest an alteration of the rhythm--which made the whole beauty of the
song--Ivan rose from his place swearing, savagely, that not one other
note in the score should be altered; but that Merelli and his whole
troupe might go to perdition when and how they chose; after which he
left the theatre, sought out Nicholas, flung his contract in that good
man's face, and requested that he go at once to Merelli with word that
the score be returned, with all its parts, and the entire transaction
declared off.
Next morning, at ten o'clock, Ivan heard his quartet sung with a
strictness of _tempo_, rhythm, and expression, far surpassing anything
yet accomplished by any of the principals of the company.
* * * * *
By Christmas week, all Moscow knew that a Gregoriev opera, _The
Boyar_--"written by the man who had been too drunk to conduct his
symphony in the previous October, you know"--(as good an advertisement
as any, and costing nothing)--was to be produced at the Grand Theatre,
at eight o'clock on the evening of January 1, 1868; the evening's
ballet, "Rêve d'Été" being by the same composer. Ivan's friends were in
a state of high excitement at a prospective success of which Merelli
seemed very sure. But they suddenly discovered that the composer himself
had not the slightest intention of being present to hear his work. For
three days they besieged Ivan with expostulation, incredulity,
persuasion. All in vain. When, twenty minutes after the hour on the
night named, the curtain rose, disclosing to the chorus a house packed
to the doors, the composer's box--reserved for him--contained only the
two Rubinsteins, Balakirev, Kashkine, and Laroche. Ostrovsky, the
librettist, was behind the scenes, still on his knees before the
Menschikov, in a mad endeavor to obtain her promise to abstain from the
French habit of adding an _e_ to the end of every word.
Ivan, deserted even by Sósha, who had a seat in the topmost gallery of
the opera-house, sat before his dying fire, enduring the last throes of
that long struggle for recognition which, he believed in the depths of
his soul, was finally to end, to-night. It is seldom, indeed, that there
does not linger, however unwelcomed, one little shred of hope for the
success of one's own work. But with Ivan there now remained not even
this. The struggle of the past weeks, the glaring imperfections that had
crowded yesterday's dress rehearsal, had brought him despair
unutterable. Up to yesterday afternoon, all had been hopelessly wrong.
And the last thing he had heard, on the previous day, as he fled the
theatre, had been the loud echoes of the latest quarrel between Mesdames
Menschikov and Castello, in which the former sat alternately reviling
her companion and wailing that her voice, on the morrow, would be a mere
hoarse shred. This Ivan did not doubt:--and the first important solo of
the first act, whereby he had planned to capture and hold the interest
of the audience, depended wholly upon her!--Moreover, Finocchi's
costumes, finished barely in time for the dress-rehearsal, had been
discovered to be hopeless anachronisms, which the ridiculous little man
had violently refused to have altered in the least.--And the result of
Merelli's last, special appeal, Ivan had not cared to learn.
These incidents, and many earlier ones of his long season of trial,
whirled in a numbing chaos through Ivan's tired brain, wreathing
themselves in malevolent phantasies about the undimmed picture of his
bald failure at the concert, in the presence of his father. Indeed,
unsuspected though it remained by any of his friends, it was really this
fact of Prince Michael's witness of his misfortune--his second
disgrace--which, through all these months, had been eating, like some
poisonous acid, into the very vitals of Ivan's manhood, Ivan's courage.
It was evident to him that his father, having somewhere beheld a
programme of the concert, finding his son's name in famous company, had
determined to give him one more chance of favor. He had come to hear the
symphony: to find out whether, after all, the last Gregoriev were worth
something. And--he had found out, indeed!
Thus, for the thousandth time, the unhappy man reviewed the history of
the past three months. Minutes dragged themselves away. His thoughts
grew less keen. The intense nervousness that had possessed him earlier,
diminished. Little by little his pulses quieted, his temples ceased to
throb. He sat wondering, vaguely, what new labor his hands must turn to,
now that he had proved himself a fool in the profession he loved. His
education might, possibly, be found of some account. There were such
things as army coaches, he believed:--poor, broken-down creatures,
living upon broken possibilities and the sale of their commissions. Then
there recurred the memory of his old tutor, Ludmillo. He had not always
been unhappy. His life had been dull enough, certainly; but there was
nothing of this hideous notoriety in it. He--perhaps--
The great Kremlin clock sent twelve, slow strokes booming through the
frosty air. Ivan started, suddenly.--By now, at least, the performance
must be at an end! And--nobody had come to him!--They had all
dreaded the breaking of the news. Even Sósha:--Then it _had_
failed!--Failed.--Ah, that spark of hope! Good Heavens! Had it actually
existed, after all? Why else this terrible pain? this sickness? This
conscious pallor?--Nonsense! Had he dreamed of anything else for one
moment? He tried, desperately, for a shred of philosophy; and then found
himself pacing the floor, knees trembling, heart in throat, that sense
of nauseated faintness boding little good to a man seeking
tranquillity.--Truly, it was in the ten ensuing minutes that the climax
of his long, desperate struggle was reached, at last.
Hark! What hear we afar off? This pæan of trumpets? this rolling of
chariot-wheels? No ghosts, to-night. Surely, this time, these are the
gods themselves, that wait without this humble door!
At least the sound that smote Ivan's ears was real enough. A burly fist
was pounding on the knocker. An instant's pause. Then--ah, then he flew,
shakily, to open;--to be greeted by a volley of wreaths, of ribbons,
more precious yet, of flowers--just single, spontaneous flowers,
perfumed and wilted from their recent warm contact with human flesh, a
spangle or a shred of lace still hanging to more than one audacious
thorn!
Ivan, surrounded, heaped, by these tributes, deathly white and visibly
shaking now, received the rush of a dozen men, and,--wonder of wonders,
one woman! For presently, out of the mêlée of shaking hands and
emotional bear-hugs, he found himself gazing into the velvet eyes
of--Irina Petrovna, from whom, hopelessly dazed, he turned to the damp
and shining face of Nicholas Rubinstein; (Anton, be it observed, not
having come!)
"What are you doing?--What is it all?" he asked, wearily.
"What is it?--Oh, wonderful truly it is, that you've come at last to
your own, Ivan! that Russia holds out her arms to you: that all Moscow
is yours: that _The Boyar_ is the opera of the century; and you are the
man of--"
He stopped, perforce. Ivan's arms had risen, trembling. His lips had
uttered one, slight cry. And then, without warning, he pitched forward,
over the tumbled wreaths, into the waiting bosom of his gods.
[Footnote 1: This incident is not fictitious; but was an actual
occurrence in the life of one of the most distinguished of Russian
composers.]