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Updated: May 14, 2025
The key to this was hidden in the brain of the man who had composed it. Michael himself had dubbed this square of parchment a map: his map of men. And it contained mention of some members in almost every great family in the Empire. Nicholas himself was there, side by side with his valet a man, indeed, of vast importance in that ministerial world to which a Gregoriev still aspired.
Of these three men, not one who did not early appreciate the quality of Ivan's few productions; and agree enthusiastically behind Ivan's back with a prophecy made by Nicholas Rubinstein, which, had its subject heard it, would have caused him to retire, stuttering with indignation. Never, in truth, was young workman more modest than the Gregoriev of that day.
But its taste is none the less nauseous to the man on whom Fate forces it. Michael Gregoriev, then, a furious man of men, was to-day enduring that which has turned many a woman soul-sick and weary of existence.
November 19, 1844. Let him also see whether the story of the attempted murder of Guttenrog, at Kiev, in July 1861, is not to be found upon the same, or the next, page. Monsieur Gregoriev should be better acquainted with the guests whom he honors by his invitations. As his eyes traversed the last line, Ivan trembled a little, and grew suddenly faint. His mother's name!
So, coloring with shame, joyously angry, broken by the long prospect of ensuing grief and longing not for one being loved and lost, but for two he entered the carriage which was to carry him across Moscow, from heaven to hell: from the Petersburg station to the stone buildings of the Corps des Cadets, where, in the ensuing weeks, Ivan Gregoriev, already an adept in enduring the various forms of school-boy misery, was about to begin upon a lesson before which more than one grown man would have visibly shrunk; and under which Ivan himself, before it was finished, had become appalled at his own capacity for suffering.
This was a young girl, sixteen or seventeen years old, her head crowned by a coronal of heavy braids; her eyes, of a deep, purplish tint, rimmed with jet-black lashes, exact replicas of the Princess' own. Meeting those eyes, Ivan gave a sudden, comprehensive start. Then he said, a little confusedly: "My name is Gregoriev. I understand that the Princess Nikitenko sent for me some hours ago.
Lieutenant Gregoriev and his cousin had finally retreated to a small and empty antechamber, where the strains of the distant band came in a soft echo to their ears. Ivan was leaning forward, in front of the girl, whose eyes were lowered.
Ivan's lip curled. "Spy's wages! I am no informer," he jerked out, his heart sinking within him, nevertheless. Gregoriev leaped to his feet in fury. Almost as quickly he was back in his chair again. This conflict to retain his temper was so new to him and his repeated outbreaks were so characteristic, that one might have laughed had the situation been different.
I introduce to you, in Monsieur Ivan Mikhailovitch Gregoriev, a new composer; one who, a Russian of Russians, shall, I predict, carry the songs of our country beyond herself, and proclaim them over civilized Europe!"
Let me die at last in peace!" she said, all the silent torture of her wifehood sounding through the wavering, feeble voice. Michael Gregoriev, with a violent start, drew back. He passed his hand once across his face; then, straightening suddenly, and without another look at the figure on the bed, he turned and strode from the room, leaving the door open. Behind him, silence fell again.
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