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.'"