"No Ivan, you'll do better alone. You have influence with him.—Good God! a year ago he worshipped you! I believe there was something you told him—some pointer you gave him at one time about work, that made an immense impression on him.—You mean something to him. Me, he dislikes. He knew months ago that I—well, saw something of his infirmity. But, while I don't believe in him, this affair mustn't go on. The fellow could have learned to paint. He's killing himself now, not physically, but mentally and morally.—The whole city's waked up to him. His pace is unprecedented.

"Come, there's nothing more to say, Ivan Mikhailovitch. Go and pull your protÉgÉ out of the mire—if you can!"

The two men rose, simultaneously. Ivan was very pale. He was still in the first shock of full revelation; and it was a moment or two before he put his hand into that of Nicholas, and answered, simply: "Yes, I will go."

"Soon?"

"Oh yes." The reply had a weary tone. "Yes. I will go to-day."

Rubinstein nodded with satisfaction. His self-imposed mission was accomplished. A moment later, after a close hand-clasp, he was gone.

It was the first Wednesday of the new year. For the past three months Ivan, who had been on a distant country estate, engrossed in his father's affairs, had heard nothing of the gossip of Moscow. Two days after his return, Nicholas came to him with the story of Joseph's disgrace and disaster; the tale over which the malignant city was now holding its sides with amusement. Ivan, sick with amazement and regret, had promised his old friend to seek the young fool out and—and what? Remonstrate—with madness? Right, in an hour or two, a situation that was the climax of months of wrong? Impossible! All Ivan's instincts rebelled against the idea. Nevertheless, as Nicholas had clearly pointed out, something must be done. Yet who but he, Joseph's first friend in Russia, had the faintest chance of success: of once more setting those purposeless feet on the upward path?—Thus, in the end, with his mood an indecisive mixture of pity and revolt, Ivan prepared himself for the necessary visit.

Nicholas and he had been lunching together in the Gregoriev palace. The brief midwinter day was still bright when the Prince's sleigh set its owner down in the Academy Quarter, a door or two away from the tall house in which Joseph still retained his rooms. Ivan knew his way well enough; but he stood in the empty hall before the closed door for some seconds before he could bring himself to knock, so strong was his feeling of impotence, his dread of intruding into these two, alien lives. At length, stifling his thoughts, he hastily clacked the brass knocker of the door.

A moment. Then came the sound of a woman's voice, muffled, but startlingly familiar:

"C'est toi, Joseph?"

Instantly, all the blood in Ivan's body rushed to his brain. Then, fiercely seizing the door, he thrust it open, strode into the studio, and found himself face to face with Irina Petrovna.

Irina was garbed very much en negligÉe, but Ivan's profound amazement, (by some freak of chance the woman's name had never been mentioned to him) for a few seconds prevented his noticing that she was standing beside a trunk half filled with her own garments, more of which were scattered about the room. Looking from her dishevelled figure to the box, the significance of her evident occupation was suddenly borne in upon him.

The question which had risen to his lips was prevented by the woman's exclamation, made in a voice whose usual velvet tones—how long familiar to him!—were now broken and harsh and strained by her palpable emotion:

"You here, Ivan!—You!"

He raised his eyes to hers, looking her calmly in the face; for, suddenly, by her confusion, his self-control had returned to him, and he felt his power. "Yes, Irina; I have come for a special purpose. But—you—" he looked doubtfully from her to the trunk, "you—and Joseph—are leaving this house?"

"No!—Ah, wait, wait, I will tell you!—Will you sit down?"

Ivan turned to obey her, and, an instant later, found himself alone. Irina had disappeared into the adjoining bedroom, whence she emerged, in a very short space of time, clad in a tea-gown that bore the air—and the name—of the greatest of Parisian couturiÈres. Her appearance corresponded with the garment; for Irina's dramatic instinct for effect was unfailing; and, penniless and debt-laden though she was, no Duchesse of St.-Germain could have surpassed her now in beauty and in chic.

As she entered the room and seated herself on the couch with a manner and a smile that affected him powerfully, a great discouragement came upon the man. He was here on man's business: to fight with a weak man against that man's weakness. How was he to cope with a woman: and, above all, such a woman as this?

As the question passed through his mind, Irina herself answered it:

"Eh bien, Monsieur le Prince, you have come, I am sure, to help that poor Joseph! Is it not so?—Let us forget the acquaintance which we have had, you and I. Let us speak of that little one who, in his heart, worships you, monsieur, though you have not come to him. Well, you hear of his debts? of his disgrace? his fever for play?—So, at last, you yield: you come!—Good!—You find me here. I embarrass you. NÉanmoins, I tell you, monsieur, that I, also, in my way—I, who have so hurt him, pauvre enfant! am at last wishful for his repentance and recovery.

"You have asked me if we, Joseph et moi, were leaving this place. I tell you no. I am leaving it. I! To-night, when that boy comes back from the 'Masque,' he shall find himself once more unencumbered.—Well, I have allowed myself the luxury of explanation with you. But now I must finish—that, and go."

"And where do you go, Irina Petrovna?" inquired Ivan, in the deep, calm voice that suddenly bereft the woman of all her easy impertinence.

Unquestionably, she flushed. "Do not ask me. There is a refuge that is mine for the asking—"

"Ah!—Well, about Joseph. I have been listening to his story as told by a man—my friend. But I wish also to hear it from you, who know it all.—How was it that you met?—And what has become of his real work: of his talent?"

Irina did not immediately reply. Picking a small, gold case from a heap of baubles at her side, she drew therefrom a cigarette, lighted it, with that innate coquetry that was her bane, and believed that Ivan did not see how the match trembled. After three puffs she suddenly turned her great eyes on the man, and smiled, joyously:

"You embarrassed me, monsieur! Of my meeting with Joseph, of our life here, I shall say nothing. His—fall, you may impute to me, wholly. And yet—and yet, Ivan, in the face of all I have done, I still say to you, Joseph's own weakness would have killed him in the end.—You, who are a great artist, who have labored through poverty, through injustice, through calumny, through the jealousy of friends and the libel of enemies, and have conquered them all, you know well in your heart that great ignorance, great vanity, great self-indulgence, belong not to the characters of the truly great.—Oh I, I, Irina, the outcast, know that well! Did I tempt you?—Those traits were Joseph's. I, who have loved him, say it. For love of me and of himself, he degraded his art. For himself, he has played and played and played, at the 'Masque,' till even I bade him stop.—Roulette—baccarat—trente et quarante:—all he has, is gone; and he has borrowed again and again from every one.—Oh bah! You, mon Prince, can do nothing with or for him. Leave these rooms. Return to your beautiful, calm life. This is not for you.—And as for me"—she suddenly flung the cigarette away and leaped to her feet—"I, also, am going!" And, throwing herself down beside the trunk, she began to stuff the litter of the room into its capacious trays.

In the dim light, Ivan saw not the unsteadiness of her hand; nor knew that her heart was throbbing, wildly; nor that she was fighting back an impulse to crawl to him, miserably, on hands and knees, and beg for the generosity of his great heart.

No, Ivan suspected nothing. He merely sat, rigid, silent, white-faced, tossing aside stub after stub of cigarettes, and gazing, vacantly, into the spaces of past and future, trying to reconstruct the broken life of that starving boy whom he once had fed.

The trunk was packed, and locked. Ivan did not look up. Not, indeed, until a tall woman, in a severely-cut cloth costume, entered the studio from the inner chamber bearing with her a lighted lamp, did he come back to himself, and offer to help her into the fur coat that hung over one arm.

This act of courtesy accomplished, Ivan mechanically held out his hand. "You are leaving now?"

"Yes."

"I shall wait here for—him. Do you know when he will come?"

"By seven, probably. We usually dine at that hour."

"Thank you.—Good-bye."

"Ivan!"—The word was a strange whisper. Ivan started. When his eyes met hers, she was looking at him almost steadily. The next instant she had uttered a hoarse: "Good-bye!" and—was gone.

He returned to his seat, wondering a little about her destination: surmising, indeed, the costly equipage that awaited her in the street, with its two men on the box, and its eager occupant.—Faugh! The reverie was broken by the appearance of a man who came to take away the trunk. Her plans had been well laid. But—suppose, as she had imagined when he entered, he had been Joseph, returned early? Well, she had doubtless carried things off high-handedly more than once. Why should she hesitate this time?

Heart-sick, Ivan returned to his seat in the lamp-light. Odd that he should have come hither on this day of crisis! Was it well, or ill, that this was so? Would Joseph, overwhelmed by his loss, prove pliable?—Would his weakness be guided by another's reason?—Who could tell? If strength is always consistent, weakness should be as often incalculable.

The silent minutes crept along. Ivan, who, in the face of Nicholas' tale, had eaten little luncheon, began to grow faint for food. Seven o'clock had already been rung by the myriad bells of Moscow. Joseph did not come.—The half-hour.—Eight.—Still no Joseph. Well, since he was here Ivan would wait the night through, if necessary. Another hour. The watcher's eyelids grew leaden; a great emptiness, a lonely dread, crept through him. He shivered in the growing chill of the room. At last, a little before ten, there came the sound of shuffling steps in the hall, followed by a fumbling at the door, which presently swung back as Joseph appeared on the threshold and paused, blinking at the light.

It was at this moment that Ivan caught his most memorable glimpse of the young man, white-faced, unshorn, ill-clothed, his eyes bloodshot, his whole person shambling and loose-jointed: his long fingers working, tremulously. After a moment's anxious gaze he said, in a muffled voice:

"Irina!—Here, Irina!—I forgot about supper! I forgot I promised, this time. But you should have seen! Eleven times during the hour, seven came up!—I was playing your number.—How could any one have dreamed—Irina!"

"She is not here," said Ivan, quietly, as he rose.

"What!—Th—Thou!" Joseph straightened, but his jaw fell.

Ivan made no reply. Presently the other shut the door and came forward, peering, eagerly. "Thou!" he muttered again, as if to himself. And then: "Ivan!—I saw him!"—Finally, aloud: "But Irina!—I want Irina, you know."

For answer, Ivan took the broken man by the arm and put him into a chair. Then he said, very gently: "When did you eat last, Joseph?"

"Eat!" The upturned face, with its varnished eyes, gleamed ghostlike in the yellow light. "This morning I—"

"You've been at the 'Masque' all day?"

"Oh, you see, I—you know she needs a great deal.—Sometimes I—I have hardly enough.—Perhaps, now, Ivan Mikhailovitch, you—would lend—"

"You must have some food, at once," broke in Ivan, harshly.

To his surprise, Joseph suddenly sprang to his feet, crying, angrily: "See here, what the devil are you doing here?—And where is Irina?—I want her! She knows me.—Where has she gone?"

"I don't know."

"Don't—Rot! She's at a restaurant. I'm late.—Well, I'll wait." He stumbled backward into the chair, again; but Ivan stood close before him, his face now as white as Joseph's own.

"Irina is not at a restaurant. She left these rooms early this afternoon, and took her things with her." And, as he spoke, Ivan stiffened his every muscle, and instinctively clinched his hands.

For the moment, Joseph stared, stupidly. Then, all at once, he was up and at Ivan, lurching forward upon him, clutching, impotently, at his throat, breathing gutturally, while he uttered inarticulate syllables in the tongue of a serf.

Ivan, even in his disgust at this revelation of the man's lowest self, his unquestionable bad blood, held him off, easily. In a moment or two, indeed, he had the half-drunken, wholly exhausted creature back in his chair, panting and helpless.

Even now, it seemed, Joseph could meet his eyes. A long look passed between them, and Ivan perceived that the painter had come enough to himself to try to analyze his position. He was, however, wholly unprepared when the fellow sprang at him again, this time with a wild shriek:

"Ah! You devil!—You devil!—It was you, you who have taken her from me!—My God!—You!"

"Kashkarin, listen!—Be silent.—You can't hurt me.—Listen!"

There was too much quiet mastery in that voice for disobedience. Joseph became suddenly quiet.

"I came here this afternoon to see what was to be done for you. When I arrived, Mademoiselle Patrovna was on the point of departure. She was well aware that you were being ruined through her; and so she left you. She told me she should be cared for.—There is some one else. I let her go, gladly, knowing it to be well for you. And now—"

The interruption this time was a burst of furious laughter, so loud, so fierce, that Ivan was appalled. Joseph, it seemed, had become a demon. When at last he spoke, it was only to repeat some of Ivan's words: "Aware she was ruining me!—Was!—Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha!—And you believed it 'well' for me!—'Well!'—Ah-ha-ha-ha!—Thou hast wit, Ivan!"

Ivan's eyes, piercing the hideous mask that hid an agony, softened. He went impulsively forward, clasping Joseph's frail body in his own, strong arms. "Joseph, I do not mock you. I helped you once. You know that. Trust me again, then. You are not ruined. I have enough to pay your debts, ten times over. Leave the matter to me. Come to my house. There you shall rest, and wait for the strength that seems gone. With me it shall come back to you, the old beauty, the old power of art—"

Again was Joseph seized in the grasp of his haunting devils. Extricating himself violently from the kindly clasp, he turned away from Ivan and stood for a moment mute. When he again faced round, his face was all but irrecognizable. And through the tirade that followed, this demoniac look grew more and more horrible, till Ivan felt himself overwhelmed: as much by Joseph's appearance as by his words. For the moment, the man was beyond sanity. And from the depths of his bemired soul poured fragments of that understanding that still remained to him:

"Art!—Art.—You once preached it to me, starving. Art; purity; earnestness; sincerity:—the artist-angel you described for me! And now to me you say 'rest,' and 'wait!' Rest, for me, the accursed? Wait, to me, devil-ridden? I have descended, of my own free will, into hell. For five months I have wallowed there. Art and my soul I sold for the dirt they would buy. They are gone. Can you buy them back? or the decency, honesty, cleanliness, youth, I pawned, for filth and more filth? I am saturated with it. I reek with it. It embraces me with octopus arms. Every kopeck, every rouble, has gone to tighten that embrace. It is not to be loosened. I am hell-bound for eternity. And you speak to me of art!

"Leave me, Ivan Gregoriev, to my own. You can never know me. I hate you now. Irina has gone away. Having brought me to this, I disgust her!—Go thou, then, clean body, clean hands, clean heart!—Ach! I hate—hate—hate!

"And there sits my devil—clothed in the scarlet.—Look on her! Look! Look, for the last time, before I pay her her wage of destruction!—So!—There!—And there!—And there!"

It was the canvas containing his first portrait of Irina. Seizing a palette-knife from a neighboring tray of brushes and paints, he stabbed thrice into the canvas, ripping the picture, wickedly, from top to bottom, from side to side.

"Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha! You see her?—I damn her there as she has damned me!—Now you have heard my love, Ivan Mikhailovitch! Now you know!—Go, then, out at that door, carrying your knowledge of me into the wide world.—Take care!—Take care!—It is not only pictures I can kill!—You don't know me yet, I tell you.—Go, I command you! Go!—Go!"

Seizing Ivan's coat and cap from the chair on which they lay, Joseph flung them into their owner's arms. Then for the last time the two faced each other, the sane man gazing earnestly into the other's blazing eyes. Evidently Ivan reached his decision in that look; for, without more ado, he donned his fur garments, and then, without a word, left the room.

It was barely half-past eight o'clock next morning when Ivan remounted the stairs leading to Joseph's rooms, expecting to find the madman sunk in the sleep of exhaustion. He found the door unlocked, and the room—empty. Joseph was gone:—out into Moscow, into the cruelty of the frozen city, penniless, friendless, perhaps still mad! Nor did he ever reappear, in any of his old haunts. Search proved fruitless. Irina had done her work thoroughly. Every effort failed to bring the wanderer up out of the dark unknown. Ivan, bitterly rebelling, tried, in his heart, to hope that that distant Polish hut of his youth knew him again: sheltered, in peaceful dissolution, one of the great talents of the age.