Part 13

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.

Mitia fell into a troubled sleep. In his dreams strange visions come to him. At one time an enormous violin of impossible dimensions with a tiger’s head moves toward him, opening its monstrous jaws to devour him. At another, he beholds his own violin, but it is no longer in its case. It has grown fast to his chest, he tries with all his might to wrench it off, but in vain; it is part of himself, like his arm, his leg, or his head. And Anton Egoritsch is pushing the bow into his hand and whispering: “Play, Mitenka, play, little dove, now it has grown part of you, you can’t help yourself.” He would like to join in the games of the little girls and boys who are moving around merrily in their light holiday dresses in the brightly illumined room. But it is impossible, the violin is part of himself, and Anton Egoritsch is leading him on the platform. The Hall is full of people, great ladies and fine-looking gentlemen; and there in the front row sits the Prince fixing him with his single eyeglass. A great stillness prevails in anticipation of his playing. Anton Egoritsch is at his back and whispers in his ear: “Play, Mitenka, and play to astonish them all. Then there will be fame and wealth.” No, he will not play. He wants no fame, no wealth. All he wants is freedom--freedom to live as other children live--to play, to rejoice, to laugh--“Play,” whispers Anton Egoritsch, “dearest little one, play.” “No, I won’t, I won’t. There.” With both hands Mitia grasps the violin grown to his breast, summons all his strength, and with a cry tears it away, and with it a portion of his body. A river of blood flows from the wound. The audience, the Prince, all are wildly applauding and calling “Bravo! Bravo!”

Anton Egoritsch, beaming with gratification, is loudest in his applause. Onkel steps on the platform and shouts: “It is I who have made so superb a musician of him. His fame is my fame!”

“No,” says Anton Egoritsch. “It is my fame. Mine, mine, mine.” They quarrel, they fight, and no one notices that meanwhile he is bleeding to death.

Mitia awakes in terror. He clutches at his chest, which aches unbearably. The dawn is breaking. He can faintly distinguish the objects in the room. The first to meet his eye is the violin peeping from its open case, the first thought to strike his mind--to-day’s Grand Concert. Success, universal admiration, invitations, parties, concerts, and at home the never-ending practising. The more his fame increases, the more frequent, unceasing, will be the demands of Anton Egoritsch. “Mitenka, little dove, play the twenty-third exercise. Mr. Onkel says--”

A feeling of despair comes over him. Life to him seems but a narrow, dark dungeon from which he is released only that he may show the public what progress he has made--then he must back to prison. The violin is an instrument of torture, Anton Egoritsch and Onkel are jailers, hangmen, who watch his every breath. He turns his head toward the door, and listens with beating heart. Seven o’clock strikes--he will soon be here, will bring the milk, will say: “Mitenka, play, apply yourself, little dove. To-day is the Grand Concert.”

He hears a match struck, he hears the flip-flop of slippers, the jailer is coming! No, he has gone to the kitchen for the milk. In half an hour he will be here, then the violin, the practising, the endless, never varying scraping for ever and ever--and all for the sake of a something called fame. Mitia gets up and presses his teeth into his lower lip till the blood comes. “Wait, dear Papa, wait. I will arrange a fame for you.” He is as pale as his sheet. His eyes are wandering and full of tears. His frail body is shaking with fever. He has but one thought in his mind: “I must be quick--in half an hour the jailer will be here.” He hastens his actions. With trembling hands he grasps his leather belt and fastens one end to the hook which holds the towel. Then he makes a loop and pauses. He signs himself with the cross ardently and firmly. Big tears course down his cheeks unrestrainedly. He is intensely sorry for some one. Somebody beckons to him--is it his mother or his little sisters? But the jailer is coming. There is not a moment to lose. Again he makes the sign of the cross, closes his eyes, and puts his head into the noose.

* * * * *

At ten o’clock, on the morning of the same day, a woman rushed into the Conservatory. Her hair was disheveled, and in spite of the cold she was very thinly clad. She cried, screamed, wrung her hands, but could find no words to give expression to her sorrow. She was taken to the Director, who placed her in a chair and said:

“Calm yourself, Madam, and tell us what is the matter. We will do all we can for you.”

But he felt ashamed of these politely sympathetic words when he finally succeeded in learning that the woman was the mother of Mitia Spiridonoff, and that the hope and future pride of the Conservatory had that morning hanged himself in his room by a leather belt. He was further shocked to learn that Anton Egoritsch, that honorable elderly man, whom they had all so often seen leading his son by the hand, had lost his reason, that he neither saw nor heard, but sat hugging Mitia’s violin, kissing it and saying: “This is my son, my son. He will make us famous.”

When Onkel heard of the catastrophe, he staggered and fell back heavily in his chair. He narrowly escaped a paralytic stroke. Through Mitia’s death the greatest chance of his life to acquire fame was lost.

In half an hour the Conservatory was in a state of horror. The terrible news had rapidly spread from mouth to mouth. The ladies cried, fainted, or went into hysterics.

The following day the entire Conservatory was at the funeral of Mitia Spiridonoff. His playfellows carried the small coffin, followed by his grief-stricken mother and little sisters. Anton Egoritsch alone was not there. They had been compelled to send him to the asylum. He had broken into ravings and cursings by Mitia’s coffin.

A WORK OF ART

AND

THE SLANDERER

BY ANTON PAVLOVITCH CHEKHOV

_Chekhov, who has been called the Russian De Maupassant, was born of humble parents in the suburbs of Moscow in 1860, and died of consumption in 1904. Though he received the degree of M.D., he never practised medicine. His was a nature far more poetical than that of De Maupassant, and it would perhaps be nearer right to call him a Russian Stevenson, for, like him, he had a lifelong struggle against illness, and, like him, illness and suffering mellowed and sweetened his character. Chekhov was an artist to his finger-tips, in a sense and to a degree beyond that of any of his Russian predecessors._

A WORK OF ART THE STORY OF A GIFT

BY ANTON CHEKHOV

Translated by Archibald J. Wolfe. Copyright, 1905, by the Short Stories Co., Limited.

Alexander Smirnoff, the only son of his mother, holding in his hand some object carefully wrapped in a newspaper, an angelic smile on his youthful face, entered the consulting-room of Dr. Koshelkoff.

“Ah, dear youth!” exclaimed the doctor, “how are you? What is the good news?”

Confused and excited, the young man replied:

“Doctor, my mother is sending her regards--I am her only son, you know--You saved my life. Your skill--We hardly know how to thank you!”

“Say no more, dear boy!” said the doctor, beaming with delight. “I have only done my duty. Anybody else would have done the same.”

“I am the only son of my mother. We are poor, and, of course, can not repay you for your labors as you have deserved--and we feel it deeply. At the same time my mother--I am her only son, doctor--my mother humbly begs you to accept as a token of our gratitude a little statuette she values very highly. It is a piece of antique bronze, and a rare work of art.”

“My good fellow--” commenced the physician.

“No, doctor, you must not refuse,” continued Alexander, unfolding his parcel. “You will deeply offend mother and myself, too. It is a little beauty. A rare antique. We have kept it in memory of father, who was a dealer in antique bronzes. My mother and myself continue the business.”

Finally the youth succeeded in freeing his present from its wrappings, and placed it on the table with an air of great solemnity. It was a moderately tall candelabrum of antique bronze and of artistic workmanship. It represented two female figures somewhat scantily attired, and bearing an air of frivolity to describe which I have neither the required daring nor the temperament. The figures smiled coquettishly, and looked as if they were ready to jump on the floor and to engage in some wild frolic, were they not restrained by the task of supporting the candle holder.

The doctor regarded his present for a few moments in silence, then scratched his head and coughed irresolutely.

“A beautiful article, to be sure,” he finally said. “But you know--what shall I say? Why, it is hardly the thing, you know. Talk of _déshabillé_! This is beyond the bounds of propriety. The devil!”

“W-w-why?”

“Now, how could I put a thing like that on my table? It will corrupt my residence.”

“Doctor, you surprise me,” answered Alexander, with an offended tone, “What queer views of art! This is a work of art! Look at it! What beauty, what delicacy of workmanship! It fills the soul with joy merely to look at it; it brings tears to one’s eyes. Observe the movement, the atmosphere, the expression!”

“I fully appreciate it, my boy,” interrupted the physician. “But you know I am a man of family. I have children. A mother-in-law. Ladies call here.”

“Of course, if you look at it from the point of view of the common herd, you might regard it in a different light. But I beg of you, rise above the mob. Your refusal would hurt the feelings of my mother and of myself. I am her only son. You saved my life. We are asking you to accept something we hold very dear. I only deplore the fact that we have no companion piece to it.”

“Thank you, dear fellow, and thank your mother. I see that I can not reason with you. But you should have thought of my children, you know, and the ladies. But I fear you will not listen to arguments.”

“No use arguing, doctor,” replied the grateful patient, made happy by the implied acceptance. “You put it right here, next to the Japanese vase. What a pity I have not the pair. What a pity!”

When his caller departed the doctor thoughtfully regarded his unwelcome present. He scratched his head and pondered.

“It is an exquisite thing, without doubt. It would be a pity to throw it into the street. It is quite impossible to leave it here, though. What a dilemma to be in. To whom could I give it? How to get rid of it?”

Finally he bethought himself of Ukhoff, a dear friend of his school days, and a rising lawyer, who had just successfully represented him in some trifling case.

“Good,” said the doctor. “As a friend he refused to charge me a fee, and it is perfectly proper that I should make him a present. Besides, he is a single man and tremendously sporty.”

Losing no time, the doctor carefully wrapped up the candlestick and drove to Ukhoff.

“There, old chap,” he said to the lawyer, whom he happily found at home; “there I have come to thank you for that little favor. You refused to charge me a fee, but you must accept this present in token of my gratitude. Look--what a beauty!”

On seeing the present the attorney was transported with delight.

“This beats everything!” he fairly howled. “Hang it all, what inventive genius! Exquisite, immense. Where did you get such a little gem?”

Having expressed his delight, the lawyer anxiously looked at his friend and said:

“But, you know, you must not leave this thing here. I can not accept it.”

“Why?” gasped the doctor.

“You know my mother calls here, clients, I would not dare to look my servants in the face. Take it away.”

“Never! You must not refuse,” exclaimed the physician with the energy of despair. “Look at the workmanship! Look at the expression! I will not listen to any refusals. I will feel insulted.”

With these words the doctor hurried out of the house.

“A white elephant,” the lawyer mumbled sadly, while the doctor, rubbing his hands with glee, drove home with an expression of relief.

The attorney studied his present at length and wondered what to do with it.

“It is simply delicious, but I can not keep it. It would be vandalism to throw it away, and the only thing to do is to give it away. But to whom?

“I have it now,” he fairly shouted. “The very thing, and how appropriate. I will take it to Shashkin, the comedian. The rascal is a connoisseur in such things. And this is the night of his jubilee.”

In the evening the candelabrum, carefully wrapped, was taken to Shashkin’s dressing-room by a messenger boy. The whole evening that dressing-room was besieged by a crowd of men who came to view the present. An incessant roar of delight was kept up within, sounding like the joyous neighing of many horses. Whenever an actress approached the door leading to the sanctum, and curiously knocked, Shashkin’s hoarse voice was heard in reply:

“No, my dear, you can’t come in, I am not fully dressed.”

After the performance Shashkin shrugged his shoulders and said:

“What on earth shall I do with this disreputable thing? My landlady would not tolerate it in the house. Here actresses call to see me. This is not a photograph, you can’t hide it in the drawer.”

The hair-dresser listened sympathetically while arranging the comedian’s hair.