"What!" The exclamation was low, and absolutely incredulous.
"You heard me. Aren't you perfectly well fitted to teach theory and harmony laws, and the principles of composition, to a lot of ignoramuses, at one hundred roubles a month?"
Before Nicholas had finished, Ivan jumped to his feet and began to pace up and down the attic-room. In his cheeks there appeared two vivid spots of red; and his eyes shone, peculiarly. Rubinstein sat puffing at the pipe for which he had just exchanged his cigar; while he stared about the bare room, and waited, patiently, for his sudden proposition to sink home. He was unprepared, however, for what came. Ivan presently stopped in front of him, saying, hurriedly:
"You know I was born in Moscow?"
"I have heard it."
"My father lives there."
"That will be fortunate for you."
"Oh! but—he—I'm disinherited, you know! And—where should I live, there, on my hundred roubles a month?"
"Well, it is not a large sum; but it can be done. Besides, as soon as we prove the thing a success, we'll increase the salaries. Also, you shall have time to work on your own little ideas.—Ah! I have it!—I've an apartment, close to the Conservatoire. It's furnished, and Shrâdik—violin, you know—is living there already. He has one room, I another. Will you take the third? We'll share the parlor."
"Oh—oh Nicholas Ivanovitch, stop! You misunderstand!—The pay is double what I live on now.—I mean, only, that—for me—there are memories in Moscow: bitter ones.—I'm used to ostracism here; but in Moscow—where my mother's family has always been—Oh! I don't see my way to it!"