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The old man turned to follow, shivering in the night-air. Suddenly
recollecting himself, he begged the Prince to enter and take some
refreshments, but with the air and tone of a man who hopes that his
invitation will not be accepted. If such was really his hope, he
was disappointed; for Boris instantly commanded the istvostchik to
wait for him, and entered the humble dwelling.
The apartment into which he was ushered was spacious, and plainly,
yet not shabbily furnished. A violoncello and clavichord, with
several portfolios of music, and scattered sheets of ruled paper,
proclaimed the profession or the taste of the occupant. Having
excused himself a moment to look after his daughter's condition,
the old man, on his return, found Boris turning over the
leaves of a musical work.
"You see my profession," he said. "I teach music?"
"Do you not compose?" asked the Prince.
"That was once my ambition. I was a pupil of Sebastian Bach.
But--circumstances--necessity--brought me here. Other lives
changed the direction of mine.


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