"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: