Part 12

“You have great talent. You will make the reputation of the Conservatory, the fame of Russia,” he said, gulping his words as if in the act of hastily swallowing hot tea.

The young ladies gazed tenderly at the boy, and sighed pityingly at his emaciation and pallor.

Professor Brendel passed by. He, too, was a violinist, but very unlike Onkel. Brendel was tall and slim, Onkel was short and stout. Brendel came from Leipsic, Onkel came from Munich. Brendel hated Onkel, because he was a violinist, and according to Brendel there should be but one violinist in the world, and that one--Brendel. Secondly, he hated Onkel, because this wonder, this little Spiridonoff of whom every one was talking, had been discovered in Onkel’s class, and not in his--Brendel’s. Lastly, he hated Onkel because the latter dared to exist. Brendel stopped by Spiridonoff and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Not bad!” he said with a Leipsic accent. “Your technique is good for your age, but why did you make so many mistakes?”

This was untrue, and against his own conscience, but he wished to say something disagreeable in the presence of Onkel.

“He made fewer mistakes than Professor Brendel does in making that remark,” replied Onkel with a Munich accent.

Brendel pretended not to hear as he disappeared at the end of the corridor.

Little Spiridonoff was tormented on all sides. They peered into his eyes, they slapped him on the shoulder, they patted his head, stroked his cheeks, chucked him under the chin, every one encouraged him and predicted future greatness.

He looked at them all sadly, and received their praises with indifference. He apparently felt shy and weary amid all these ebullitions of feeling. His eyes searched anxiously for some one, and finally rested reassured on the wrinkled face of the tall man, who some minutes before had sat at the end of the second row, and listened to him with such close attention. The man eagerly noted all the compliments showered on the boy. He was leaning against the half-open door of a classroom, which was this evening serving for a green room, and holding a child’s thick overcoat in one hand and in the other a violin case. He approached the boy, relieved him of his violin and bow, and placed them in the case with care. Then, after putting on the boy’s overcoat, and muffling a white silk handkerchief around his neck, he took him by the hand, and led him downstairs.

“Spiridonoff,” Onkel called, arresting their steps, “prepare yourself for the Grand Concert.”

The man in the black, buttoned-up coat made a bow, and then continued downstairs, solicitously assisting the boy at every step.

“That’s his father,” somebody remarked.

“Fortunate father,” exclaimed Onkel, much elated at Spiridonoff’s success.

* * * * *

It was a winter morning, and that early hour when the cold is even severer than during the night. The streets were still dark, and the lamps burning. None but belated pleasure seekers hastening to reach home, or factory workmen wrapped in sheepskins hurrying to their work, were to be seen about. While the rest of the population were yet lost in sleep, a fire was lighted in the small, dingy house of the government clerk, Spiridonoff. He had risen at six o’clock, washed and dressed, said his prayers, and cautiously tiptoed into the hall. The house was terribly cold. Mrs. Spiridonoff, who was twenty years younger than her husband, lay sleeping in a large bed with two of her children. Her head was swathed in a cloth, and a mass of clothing was piled on the top of the blanket. This was the only way in which they could keep themselves warm. Old Spiridonoff went through the hall, and feeling for the kitchen door, opened it and entered. A burning lamp emitted an unbearable odor. The cook, like her mistress, was covered over head and ears in rags. It was difficult to tell her head from her feet.

“Arina! Arina!” called Spiridonoff in a low voice, shaking her with both hands. “Get up, it is past six o’clock.”

A sigh issued from the rags. Arina was evidently still sleepy, and unwilling to exchange the warmth of the bed for the outside cold.

“Arina, have we any wood?”

“Wood?” answered a voice as if from a tomb, “perhaps enough to heat one stove.”

“Good. Get up and light the fire in Mitia’s room. At once, do you hear? He’ll be getting up soon.” Arina’s nose appeared from under the bedclothes.

“In Mitia’s room? His was heated yesterday. Perhaps it would be better to have a fire in the bedroom. It hasn’t had one for two days.”

“No, no, no. Mitia’s, do you hear? Mitia’s room must be warm.”

Arina growled her disapproval, nevertheless she got up as soon as Spiridonoff left the room, and after putting on all the rags which had served as her bed covering, she collected the wood which lay under the kitchen table.

“Devils--Anathemas,” she grunted, but in such tones that no one could hear her. “Call themselves gentlefolks--keep a cook indeed--haven’t money enough to buy a log of wood. Mitia is the only one who is kept warm.”

Spiridonoff went into the bedroom, and letting down the cambric bed-curtain, lit a candle. He had on a coat of fox fur, so old that it hung in tatters, and could only be worn for domestic work. He sat down by the table, took a pen, and began writing with half frozen fingers. From time to time he laid down his pen, breathed on his hands, warmed them by the candle flame, and then resumed his work. In half an hour he went to see how Mitia’s stove was getting on. It was beginning to feel warm.

“Arina!” again ordered Spiridonoff, “take a piatak” (about three cents). “Here is a piatak. Run to the little store and buy some milk and boil it. Mitia is going to get up, and it must be ready.” Arina muttered that she didn’t care, milk or no milk, boil or not boil--yet she started off to buy it just the same. Spiridonoff continued to write, warm his hands by the candle, and write again. Arina came to announce that the milk was boiling.

“Aha! Good!”

The old man rose and softly opened the door to the left. The dim light thrown by the candle from the bedroom disclosed a very small room containing only three articles of furniture--a child’s bed, a chair, and a music-stand. In the bed the little virtuoso of last night, Mitia Spiridonoff slumbered sweetly with the blanket drawn up to his chin. The chair served to hold his clothes, the stand his music, while on the floor stood the case containing his violin. The room was not cold. The stove had not had time to get chilled off after yesterday’s fire, before the warmth of the new fire made itself felt. Spiridonoff took the candle, and shutting the bedroom door, cautiously sat down on the little bed. “Mitenka, Mitenka!” he called in a tender low voice.

Mitia opened his eyes with an effort, but immediately closed them again.

“Mitenka, don’t you want to get up? Eh? Won’t you take some hot milk? Eh?”

Mitia again opened his eyes. At first he looked surprised, as if he didn’t understand what was wanted of him. Then he recognized his father, and made a pathetic grimace, expressing great disinclination to be roused from his sleep.

“You don’t want to? Wish to sleep? Well, sleep, sleep. The milk can wait.”

Mitia turned over on his side and hid his face from the old man. But the old man did not leave him. He sat still for a moment, then stretched out his hand and patted the boy on the back.

“But perhaps you will get up, eh? Mitenka! It’s nearly seven o’clock, and at ten you have to go to your class. When will you do your practising? You’d better get up, Mitenka, and drink some warm milk.”

Mitia stretched himself, raised his arms, made another pitiful grimace, and finally sat up in bed.

“There’s a bright boy! Good Mitenka! There, there, I’ll dress you, wash you. You’ll say your prayers, drink your milk, and then you’ll practise. Mr. Onkel, you know, said you must prepare for the Grand Concert. You must exert yourself to the utmost. There’ll be a crowd of people there, and the Prince will come, and ah, we shall be proud of ourselves. Here are your trousers--put them on--That’s it! and here’s your shirt. What’s the matter, Mitenka darling? What is it?”

Mitia with his father’s assistance had donned his knickerbockers, and one sleeve of his shirt, when he suddenly burst out crying.

“I am sleepy, Papa dear,” he whined in a sad, faint little voice.

On his return home yesterday evening he had played for an hour and a half, and on going to bed had dreamt all night long of a gigantic violin. In his dream his father kept saying to him: “Ah, when you have played on this instrument, then you will be an artist.” And now he was so sleepy, and there again he was tormented by the violin.

The old man wiped away the child’s tears with his own handkerchief. The boy shook himself, threw off the blanket, and began to dress briskly. He drank the milk, and in ten minutes stood before the low music-stand, and scraped and scraped and scraped on the violin. About nine o’clock the mother awoke. Her name was Anna Nikitischna. She was of a contented nature, by reason of a robust, healthy body, which was easily kept warm. The woman and the children flung back the bedclothes and other coverings, and ran from the cold room into Mitia’s small one. Old Spiridonoff was horrified.

“How dare you? Mitenka is practising. Oh, my God! my God!”

“But what are we to do, Anton Egoritsch? It is so cold the children will freeze.”

“But, my God! Mitenka must prepare for the Grand Concert.”

“Well, let him do so. In what way do we hinder him? May we not stay, Mitenka?”

“Certainly, mother,” answered Mitia sweetly, smiling at his youngest sister who, happy in feeling warm, had begun to play, and was trying to creep into the violin case.

At half-past nine Anton Egoritsch himself brought him an omelet, and taking the violin from his hand, placed it in the case. Mitia hastily ate the omelet, his father almost feeding him while drawing on an old uniform. Anton Egoritsch was soon due at his post in the Chancery Department, where he occupied the lowest and worst paid position--that of copyist. He intended to hand in the work he had done at home, for which he hoped to get extra pay. In that case a fire would be lighted in the bedroom, and the little girls would have breakfast. Now they could only have weak tea and rye bread, and gaze at Mitia’s omelet with hungry eyes. Mitia would gladly share it with them, but Anton Egoritsch was inexorable.

“Have patience, children, have patience. Father will get some extra money, and then you shall breakfast too. Mitenka must eat. He needs all his strength. He’ll be an artist, and provide for us all, and make us famous. That’s what he’ll do, children.”

Anna Nikitischna, who never contradicted her husband, looked sadly at her son. Her heart contracted painfully at the sight of his thin body, his pale little face, and hollow cheeks. “The food does him no good,” she thought, “and whatever the future may bring, at present he looks wretched.” It was not that she doubted Mitia’s future fame; on the contrary her heart joyfully inclined to the belief when Anton Egoritsch related to her how surprised and delighted the audience had been last night, and how they had vied with each other in treating Mitia as a phenomenon. She simply understood nothing about it all, and when she listened to the monotonous exercises her son was constantly practising, she couldn’t tell whether the playing was good or bad.

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.