Part 13

After the omelet was finished, Anton Egoritsch wrapped up his son and took him to the Conservatory. Mitia not only studied music there, but also other subjects. The first lesson to-day happened to be “the Russian language.” There were about thirty boys in the class. The teacher had not yet arrived, and Mitia found himself in the midst of a scrimmage, which turned out to be a game. He joined in the romp, and was soon jumping and turning somersaults with unusual activity and liveliness. What the others did, he did. He felt cheerful and unrestrained. The deep depression which fell on him in consequence of incessant and hard practising instantly vanished. The boys paid him no especial attention, but just treated him like one of themselves. No one seemed to remember the laurels he had won last night, or dwell upon the fact that he was the most talented student of the Conservatory. They were all aware of it, but there was no time to give it a thought at such a moment. The game was a very close one, and the combat of the contending parties very sharp.

The teacher entered, every boy scrambled to his place, and quiet was restored.

Mitia breathed hard, his cheeks burned hotly, and a pleasant warmth diffused itself over his small frail body, a sensation due to the exercise and healthy fatigue of all his muscles.

“If mother could see me now, how pleased she would be!” thought the boy, remembering how frequently she would sigh when she looked at him and say, “Poor child, why are you so pale?”

The lesson over, another recess, another game--more movement, noise, laughter--the free expansion of childhood! These times were Mitia’s hours of rest. Let it not be imagined he did not love his work. The violin was his vocation. Three years ago, when he was nine years old, he had begged his father to buy him one, and was very happy when a friend of his father, a fifth-rate musician, taught him how to hold the violin and bow. He began to scrape from morning to night, profiting by the few hints from the musician. He was quick to comprehend and apply the advice given him. Anton Egoritsch at first regarded it as a simple, childish amusement; then an agreeable uncertainty pervaded his mind. His son might possibly have talent--great talent! He had often heard stories of great musicians, who had sprung from poor and obscure origin. What if his son were destined to greatness, to make his family famous--the poor insignificant Spiridonoff--and, above all, destined to make a fortune, and to lift them all out of this miserable poverty! The idea entirely possessed him, and a year later he took the boy to the Conservatory. He returned after Mitia’s first examination with whirling brain. The committee were delighted with the child. His style of playing, acquired from the fifth-rate musician, broke every artistic rule, yet the boy’s talent was so evident it showed in every movement of the bow. Onkel emphatically declared he would give up Spiridonoff to nobody, and that he, Onkel, as the oldest professor of the institution, had the right of choice. This Brendel denied, asserting that Onkel had already ruined more than one pupil’s talent, that he did nothing but ruin, in fact couldn’t do otherwise, as he taught the Munich method--that is to say, a bad method. Then Onkel in his turn derided the Dresden method, proclaiming there was but one method in the world--the Munich.

Their altercation, conducted in Russian, grew loader and louder, and at last when it reached the shooting stage, lapsed into German, Onkel using epithets peculiar to Munich, and Brendel those distinctive of Leipsic. The dispute had to be settled by the Advisory Committee, who assigned Mitia Spiridonoff to Onkel. From that moment Brendel doubted Mitia’s talent. But this did not trouble Anton Egoritsch. He was convinced of his son’s future fame and wealth, and felt grateful to fortune for sending him such good luck. His whole soul became centred in rearing up the prospective greatness of the Spiridonoff family. He wanted to coerce fate. His scant earnings were all spent on Mitia. Of the two rooms occupied by the family, one was given to Mitia, because he needed pure air and quiet. The rest were crowded in the other room, which served as bedroom, nursery, workroom, dining-room, and parlor. Mitia was well and warmly clad, while the little girls ran around in anything. Mitia’s food was unlike theirs. He had breakfast, and a different piece of meat for his dinner, also milk and sweetmeats. Mitia had a comfortable little bed, a soft coverlet, and clean and whole linen. Mitia was treated like a well-paying boarder in a poor family. Anton Egoritsch was so absorbed in his enthusiastic cultivation of the boy’s talent, and the glory it would bring to the Spiridonoffs that he often forgot the very existence of the other members of his family. Mitia on his part was forced to pay for all this attention. Every step he took was watched, every minute of his time was taken possession of by his father. The old man entrusted him solely to the Conservatory, believing that every second spent there brought his son nearer to the goal. But as soon as Mitia returned from the Conservatory, and had had his dinner, the old man would fondle him with one hand and with the other pass him the violin.

“Play a little, dear heart. Mr. Onkel gave you the second movement to study. Play, darling.”

And Mitia played. The candles were lighted, he rested for half an hour, drank tea and there! Anton Egoritsch lovingly put his arm around him again and said:

“Well, Mitenka, won’t you try this twenty-first exercise? What is it like?--Well? What is the good of wasting time?”

Mitia never refused, because Anton Egoritsch never ordered or compelled him to work. The old man would always ask with a caress or a joke and look affectionately into his eyes. Yet he crushed the child, ground him down with his zealous care and eternal supervision. And Mitia practised and practised. His progress was a surprise to the Conservatory. They found it extraordinary, unnatural. It did not occur to them that Mitia’s violin and bow were never out of his hands from seven in the morning till twelve at night, except when walking to the Conservatory or when eating his breakfast or his dinner. It never occurred to them that this wonderful progress was poisoning the life of this child, and was gradually producing a hatred in him of the very instrument for which he had such a calling. Least of all did his father suspect it. His fanatical devotion to the future greatness of the Spiridonoffs blinded him to all else. The apathy, the languor, expressed in the boy’s face when he took up the violin and placed himself before the low music-stand, were ignored by him. He was impervious to the looks of envy that Mitia, while practising the everlasting exercises, would cast through the open door into the next room, where his little sisters were playing. He would not notice how the boy, unknown to himself, would stop in the midst of a trill and stand idly, lost in thought. The father did not perceive that the boy was fading away and becoming silent, indolent, and morose. Anton Egoritsch beheld only the future, and would see and admit nothing in the present that did not tend toward the realization of his dream. The fulfilment of his ambition did not seem far distant now that the whole city was discussing his son’s genius. He mused: “The Grand Concert! Mitenka will surprise them. They’ll invite him to their fine houses, and bestow presents on him. He will give his own concerts, and then, with Heaven’s help, he will go abroad and astound the world.”

After his other classes Mitia had a lesson with Onkel. Onkel praised him for yesterday’s performance, but added impressively: “You must not fail at the Grand Concert. You must work hard for it.”

When Anton Egoritsch returned from the office, where he had succeeded in obtaining the extra money, he called at the Conservatory for Mitia. Onkel repeated to him: “He must work much and earnestly.” These words caused Anton Egoritsch to double his watchfulness. Hardly had Mitia finished his dinner that day when the violin was gently pushed into his hands. Anton Egoritsch encouraged him to work by giving him cakes and sweets, producing them from time to time from his pocket. By every art he could devise he prolonged the child’s practising till one o’clock in the morning. Then he undressed him, put him to bed, and softly left the room. Mitia buried his face in the pillow, and burst into tears from sheer fatigue and weariness of spirit. That Grand Concert, which the imagination of Anton Egoritsch painted in such glowing colors, in the child’s mind loomed forth as something gloomy, hateful, disgusting.

* * * * *

The Grand Concert was to take place on Saturday. On Friday morning Anton Egoritsch was up at five o’clock instead of six, and bustling around. He dressed in an absent-minded sort of way, putting on his clothes in a totally different order than that to which he had been accustomed for fifty years of his life. First came his vest, then his trousers, and dressing gown. He splashed the wall badly while washing, and used the sheet instead of the towel, although the towel hung close to his hand. He woke Arina without the slightest ceremony. He just tore the rags off her, and the cold made her promptly leap out of bed.

“Milk,” he ordered curtly, and went to Mitia’s room to light the fire. At a quarter past six Mitia stood ready before the music-stand. His face, habitually serene and sweet, was dark and angry. He did not look at his father, and complied with all his requests in a mechanical manner.

“Mitenka, darling,” rang in his ear the tender, wearying voice of Anton Egoritsch. “Mitenka, my little dove, work on. The day after to-morrow you shall sleep long, but to-day and to-morrow you must work, my dear heart. Onkel is going to have a rehearsal to-day, and you must do your very best.”

Mitia fixed his eyes on the music with an effort. They felt like closing all the while. Never had he so longed to return to his warm bed as this morning. But on he played in order not to hear his father’s persistent entreaties. He did not understand why, but every time the pleading “Mitenka darling” struck his ear he shuddered from head to foot, and his heart beat as if in fright. He played badly, out of time, out of tune, slurred notes, still on he went unceasingly, only to avoid that endlessly repeated “Mitenka, little love, little darling. Mr. Onkel said--”

Anton Egoritsch did not go to his office. He sent Arina with a note excusing himself on the plea of illness. How could he think of his work to-day, when the rehearsal, so to say, of the fame of the Spiridonoffs, was to take place? He had no doubt of Onkel’s complete satisfaction, but he could not endure the thought of Mitia mounting the last steps to glory except in his presence. Mitia played until the time came for the omelet. The dish was nauseating to him to-day. All that caused his isolation, all that was connected with to-morrow’s event, all that deprived him of sleep, rest, childhood’s play, childhood’s freedom, fresh air, sunshine--Anton Egoritsch, the violin, Onkel, the omelet--the whole combination seemed to him strange and antagonistic, and he would gladly have run away from it all. Anton Egoritsch muffled him up and conducted him to the Conservatory, but this time he did not leave him there alone. He asked Onkel’s permission to remain in the class during the rehearsal.

“It is against my principles to allow parents to be present during the lessons, but I can not refuse a Spiridonoff,” said Onkel.

The rehearsal was appointed at eleven o’clock, and an hour intervened. While Anton Egoritsch and Onkel were discussing the various means whereby renown would come to them both through Mitia, the latter made his way to the large corridor on the upper floor, where the boys of his own age were noisily at play. But to-day the game did not attract him. He stood under a low arch, leaning against the wall, and looked on with an unusually serious countenance. He felt a weariness, an exhaustion through his whole being, and a conviction that were he to mingle with the crowd of boys he would quickly be carried off his feet, thrown down, and jeered at. The hustling, the rough handling to which the children were treating each other, and which in their excitement they scarcely heeded, it seemed to him would be impossible for him to endure. He knew the first push would make him cry out.

A pretty, fair, clean little fellow ran up to him. There was a tacit friendship between him and Mitia. They were drawn to each other, and liked to sit together in class, and walk about hand in hand during recess. Ernst Klaider was the son of the organist of the Catholic Church, and was destined for his father’s profession. He was a kind, good boy, with gentle blue eyes and a pretty smile on his rosy lips. He never joined in the boisterous games. He was a German, therefore Onkel would pat him on the cheek when he met him on the stairs, although young Klaider was not a violinist.

“Spiridonoff,” said the embryo organist, “are you going to play to-morrow?”

“Yes, I’m to play,” answered Mitia sadly.

“Then you have a holiday to-day?”

Mitia looked at him inquiringly. What did he mean by holiday? He never had a holiday.

“I don’t know,” he said vaguely.

“Do me a favor. It’s my little sister’s Saint’s Day, and we’re going to have a little party this evening. Pikoloff is coming, and Kapustin and Kirik and Rapidoff. Do come too. We’ll have a dance. Won’t you come?”

“A dance?” again asked Mitia vaguely.

It seemed an unheard-of possibility to him. No, never would he be allowed to dance. He would have that violin forced upon him all day, and then all night, and again all day. Ah! just as these thoughts were crossing his mind, and he was preparing to shake his head and say that his father would never permit it, he was seized by the hand, and compelled to turn away.

“Mitenka, little dove, Mr. Onkel is inquiring for you,” said Anton Egoritsch.

Mitia shuddered and meekly followed his father. Klaider gravely went up to Anton Egoritsch. “Mr. Spiridonoff, won’t you let your son come to us this evening? We’ve invited some friends, and we are to have great fun.”

Anton Egoritsch smiled politely and indulgently. “No, dear boy. Mitenka can not come. He has to play to-morrow,” he said.

Klaider walked away and the others went downstairs. In Onkel’s classroom there were only grown-up pupils, but, in spite of his age, Mitia had gained admittance, because of his extraordinary talent.

“Ah, ah, Paganini!” exclaimed Onkel on his appearance. He often called him by that name. “Well, well, play your number. But why are you so pale?”

“He wasn’t very well in the night, professor,” Anton Egoritsch hastened to reply, but without adding how many hours the boy had been at work. This he considered innocent and justifiable in the interest of Mitenka’s future success. Had Onkel known the truth, he would probably have been less amazed at the progress of young Spiridonoff. The boy pulled himself together, summoned up his courage, and played with firmness and confidence. Had it not been for his youth they would certainly have adjudged his playing dry, lifeless, studied, forced. But everybody’s attention was held by the rapidity with which the small fingers moved, and the decision with which the bow was guided by the feeble, childish hand. No one sought for deep feeling or soul in one so young.

“What technique, what a grand technique for such a boy!” cried Onkel, pointing out Mitia with emotion and pride to the older pupils, and these, influenced by his words, spread Mitia’s fame throughout the Conservatory. The Director himself came into the classroom to listen. He shook his head: “Incomprehensible, how could a boy play like that!” The plaudits passed by Mitia unheeded, but sank deep into the heart of Anton Egoritsch. On their way down the stairs Anton Egoritsch said softly:

“You see, Mitenka darling, how good it was you listened to me. See how surprised they were.”

When they were preparing to depart, and Anton Egoritsch was busied in wrapping up Mitia as if he were a delicate flower, which had to withstand the frost, Klaider, who was also getting ready to go out, approached them.

“Mr. Spiridonoff, won’t you please let your son come to us to-day?” entreated the fair boy.

Anton Egoritsch grew red. This time he was angry, and would not even give an answer. He took Mitia into the street, carrying his violin-case, and they stepped into a hired sleigh. Klaider gazed after them and thought, “What a stern father Spiridonoff has.”

When they reached home, Mitia greatly pleased his father. Hardly had he eaten his dinner, when, of his own accord, he snatched up his violin, and commenced playing with a zeal Anton Egoritsch had not observed in him for a long time. The child played without stopping. If now and then he allowed himself a moment’s pause, as soon as the door would open, and Anton Egoritsch appear on the threshold, he would convulsively seize his bow and play on faster. Mitia did not himself realize what made him do this. He was only conscious that if he heard the usual “Mitenka darling, little dove, you must do your best. You must surprise everybody to-morrow,” his hands would begin to tremble, and he would drop the violin to the floor. Therefore he continued to play on and on--to exhaustion, to stupefaction, only not to hear those or any other words from Anton Egoritsch. But when night set in, and the candles were lit, Mitia suddenly put down the violin, and said: “I am sleepy, papa.”

“But how so, Mitenka? You mustn’t go to bed like this. You must first drink some tea and get warm.”

“No, I want to sleep,” declared Mitia, sitting on the side of his bed, and taking off his boots. Anton Egoritsch was going to assist him as was his wont, but Mitia said:

“It’s not necessary, father. I will do it myself,” and he quickly slipped off his clothes and crept under the blanket, adding: “Father, put out the candle.”

Anton Egoritsch was somewhat taken aback by this uncommon behavior. He always undressed Mitia and put him to bed; however, he did not venture to disturb the hero of to-morrow by further questions. He bent down to kiss him good night, but Mitia covered his head, and Anton Egoritsch had to content himself with making the sign of the cross over him and saying:

“Well, sleep, little dove, sleep,” thinking meanwhile that the boy was displaying the capricious nature of the artist. He placed the candle on the chair by the bedside with some matches, and then withdrew on tiptoe, carefully closing the door.

For a long time Mitia lay motionless, huddled under the bedclothes. His limbs felt paralyzed, his nerves blunted, no thought was in his head, no desire in his heart, only an indistinct rumbling in his ears, tedious, continuous. In a measure as he got warmed through he came to himself. He felt oppressed and threw back the blanket. His little sisters were going to bed. They were whimpering and Anton Egoritsch silenced them with: “Hush! Keep quiet. You will wake Mitenka.” The boy shudders at the voice, at the words. In the darkness he imagines that very soon his father will cautiously open the door, come in on his toes, and say in caressing tones: “Mitenka, are you rested, darling? Well, then, dear, get up and practise; you know you must surprise everybody to-morrow.” The words terrify him and he hides his head fearfully under the coverings. Oh, that cursed to-morrow! Not one of his playfellows has such a “to-morrow” to look forward to. Only grown people are to perform. He will be the only child, and he has to appear at this Grand Concert because he is something wonderful. Were it not for this “to-morrow” he could play with the boys in the morning, and run and jump and laugh as they do. He could be happy this evening at the Klaiders’, where there is always so much brightness and heartiness, where there are so many pleasant faces and such sounds of merry laughter.

He can see it all. There is Klaider’s fair little sister, whose Saint’s Day it is, dressed in a white frock, and there are many other small boys and girls all playing, chattering, and dancing. Not one of them is forced to achieve success in anything, or expected to astound anybody. To-morrow! He will step on the platform looking pale, tired, and with that nagging pain at his heart of which no one knows, and of which no one takes any heed. If he should succeed it will only make matters worse. He will be taken to receptions, concerts, dragged from city to city. His father has said so. He dreams of it. Then he will never again be free from the violin. The very thought of the violin fills him with hatred and disgust. It is the violin which has deprived him of all that brings joy to other children. There was a time when he loved it, but it has tormented the life out of him, and now he detests it. He experiences an inexpressible relief at the thought that it could be shattered, cut in pieces, and flung into the gutter. He opens his eyes and looks keenly in the direction where the violin stands. His room, and the one next to it, where everybody is now asleep, are perfectly dark. But what of that? He can discern that dreadful violin. He fancies it is a living being, a wicked one, whose aim in existence is to crush the life out of him while he is small, and to give him no chance to grow and become a strong man. Yes, he can see it to its minutest detail! Were the darkness a million times greater still he would not cease to see it. Its outlines are too deeply impressed on his memory, for has he not passed every minute, not spent in eating and sleeping, in its company? It clung to his arm, it rent his heart with its monotonous squeaking. And so it will be all his life. He is doomed to this.