At last Ivan's days began to be full: full of a dry work that contained many sources of keen interest to him. Certainly the greater part of it was the merest drudgery. Each afternoon he bent over a desk, laboriously copying manuscript music; meditating upon his morning of study at the Conservatoire; or seeking to hear the music the notes and signs of which he had been writing down. And this last exercise, idle though he thought it, in time bore excellent results. In the evening he still played in the orchestra of the Panaievsky Theatre—though he had now risen from "all-round man" to the sole charge of the kettle-drums. Even the performances on the shallow stage above him held for him keen interest; and, without other tuition, he gained here a knowledge of dramatic construction that served him well later, during the creation of his few operas. For, in Ivan, great talent found itself mated to love of earnest work:—a union to which the world has, through all time, owed its greatest masters of art and science.
During eighteen months—until the autumn of 1864, Ivan's working-day averaged fourteen hours. He studied constantly under Anton Rubinstein; and had the privilege, during that time, of many a private lesson under the master who at that time looked upon him as his special discovery. During the summer, he took a few pupils from the poorer ranks of the Conservatoire: students, who, by means of coaching during the summer, and double work in the winter months, managed to shorten their years of study, that wage-earning might begin as soon as possible.
At the beginning of the new winter season, Ivan passed through an experience deeply dreaded, and found himself the recipient of a happiness greater than he had dreamed possible. At the earnest solicitation of his master, he once more made his appearance in the salon of the Grand-Duchess Helena: this time as a paid accompanist. The moment in which he crossed the once familiar threshold, seemed to him the most difficult of his lonely years. And then, in another instant, he was in a new country! Her Imperial Highness greeted him with a cordiality such as she had never before shown; and the assembled company only waited for the royal greeting to crowd about him, hands out-stretched, with a welcome that brought a lump to his throat. If his playing was very bad that night: if his cold, damp fingers could scarcely move across the keys, no one noticed it save, perhaps, his hostess, who surely, in her beautiful wisdom, understood it well.
Years of hard study and constant mechanical training had kept Ivan safe for a long time from immature and damaging attempts at creative work. But with the ending of this winter of 1864-65, the spring began to bring him a renewal of dreams and aspirations too vivid and too strong to be written off by any fury of exercise, work, or self-deprecation. Melodies of long ago began to ring again in his ears. Old bits of harmonization, half forgotten, returned upon him with new meaning in their crude successions. Vague ideas grew clear. And there was a turmoil within him which he recognized, instinctively, as the creator's imperative summons. Still he held off, remembering the warnings of attempting work without tools—of production before the acquirement of sufficient technique. No use! The more he fought, the more did his brain seethe—fired by the events of his dead life, its incidents, its dramatic climaxes, its final tragedy, all of them turned into a new form, a new meaning: resolving themselves persistently into his one means of expression. Thus it was that, before he understood the significance of the change in him, he realized at last the great fact that his first great work had risen to completion, as it were, in a night, and lay now awaiting only the mechanical transcription to paper. It was ambitious, this first work—the "Symphony of Youth." Its first movement was allegro agitato, adagio, and allegretto scherzando, picturing each vivid phase of early boyhood; next came the requisite andante,—a dreaming melody, expressing all the yearning, the vague melancholy of pre-adolescence; then the third: a rippling scherzo of youthful pleasures, gayety, young loves and joyous dances; finally a tempestuous finale: allegretto sforzando é appassionato—the rising of the burdens of manhood, of new ambitions; the descending of the sadness of man's responsibility, the reluctant passing of the careless, heart-free joys of youth.
The idea and its possibilities took possession of Ivan so much to the exclusion of all else that by mid-May he capitulated to it, announced his intention of taking a holiday for the summer, and secreted himself in his old room, confiding in no one, instinctively afraid of discouragement from his master and benefactor. But it was a reckless business, this resignation of all means of livelihood. He had very little money saved; and, do what he would, he could not hope, if he was to keep out of debt, to buy much nourishing food. Through stifling days and pitiless, white nights, he labored, alone, incessantly; sparing himself in no way; foolishly refraining from exercise and out-door air, because both of them sharpened his constantly unsatisfied appetite. What more natural, then, than that September should bring with it fever, delirium, bad nursing, heavy bills; and October a convalescence rendered doubly slow because of persistent malnutrition. From this he passed, at the end of this month, into a haggard semblance of health, accompanied by that black depression which cries aloud for rest and complete change of scene.
Neither of these, however, could Ivan get. Doggedly he returned to his duties, and began, bit by bit, to pay off his debts: those debts which, five years ago, would have appeared so absurd; and which were now the nightmare of his existence! But, though he managed to accomplish the usual amount of work, and had even occasional snatches of a brilliance which astonished himself, it was not difficult to read in his face the signs of approaching breakdown. He had lived too long upon his nerves. The Rubinsteins, consulting together, shook their heads over him, wondered how his pride was to be circumvented, and finally hit on a scheme which was, for them, more than usually tactful. Anton created a new medal and scholarship, to be presented thereafter annually for the best musical setting of a classic poem which was to be the same for all. It was an exercise in which Ivan delighted; and there was little doubt as to the destination of the prize of the first year. Fate treated him kindly, at last; for he managed to keep up till after the contest. His setting of Schiller's "Ode to Joy" was incomparably the best of the sixty efforts. So, with five hundred roubles, he paid the remainder of his debts, and found himself, one week later, in Vevey, a nervous wreck, truly; but free at last from mental worry, and drawing in hope and life with every breath.
It was September before Petersburg saw him again—penniless, but full of such vigor and energy as were equal to a fair-sized capital. And he had not been in the city more than a fortnight, before he discovered that one more stage upon his rough road was over; and that the bend beyond the half-way house hid tremendous possibilities.
It was the afternoon of the 16th of the month. Ivan was at his table, bending over some half-finished parts for an orchestra overture, when the door of his old attic opened, unceremoniously, and Nicholas Rubinstein strode in.