Chapter VI: Part 6

“It is Spiridonoff, who is full of brilliant promise,” explained the trombonist. “Onkel says he’ll be a second Paganini, and he hopes to make his own name famous through the boy.”

“Oh, Spiridonoff! Is that he?”

For the last year all have heard and spoken of Spiridonoff. The boy had made marvelous progress. Even now he could have played in public and put many a grown violinist to shame. But Onkel would not allow it. He guarded his young talent with the utmost care.

“Why is he so pale, poor little fellow?” asked the florid soprano, whose interest had been aroused by the words of the trombonist.

“Pallor is an attribute of true talent,” stated the baritone. He had a pale face surmounted by a shock of black hair.

The trombonist, overwhelmed by the remark--he possessed neither pallor nor talent--again turned his face to the platform.

Among the friends of the performers, in the second row, on the last chair to the left, sat a man whose eyes were riveted on the boy with unswerving attention. He was tall and slender. His thin hair was combed over from the right temple to the left, and stuck down with pomatum in an evident desire to hide a conspicuous baldness. He must have been over fifty years of age, as there were many and deep wrinkles in his forehead, and his cheeks, and around his eyes and chin. His thin hair too was thickly streaked with gray. The strongly marked eyebrows expressed determination and obstinacy, yet there was a look of gentleness in the eyes. At the present moment he was evidently in an excited, emotional and expectant frame of mind. He wore a long, old-fashioned, black coat, carefully buttoned up to the chin.

The pale boy played. The audience particularly liked the unusual firmness with which he held his violin, and that he used his bow like a familiar weapon. Professor Onkel had acted boldly in selecting a showy concert piece instead of a pupils’ “study.” But what would you? The old professor was greedy for notoriety, and anxious to display the result of his style of teaching. He succeeded well, for Spiridonoff played splendidly. He executed the difficult passages with great precision, and when feeling was to be expressed, he pressed his bow on the string with laudable correctness. Onkel in his piano accompaniment introduced every variety of light and shade. His whole body assisted in the work. He would straighten himself, stretch his neck, or slowly throw himself back in his chair; at other times he would suddenly fling himself over the keys--in short he played with his entire being, which of course deepened the impression produced by the performance. All admired the young virtuoso, whose thin little legs seemed hardly able to support his fragile frame. When he finished playing the applause resounded. This was against the rules, but what rules can control outbursts of wonder and delight?

Spiridonoff made a hasty, awkward little bow, and left the platform, followed by Onkel, swelling with pride and pompousness.

While the next aspirant to fame tortured his instrument on the platform, a small crowd gathered in the corridor and surrounded the boy. The grand Mæcænas with the long gray beard was there. This patron of the institution never missed a single free concert; in fact, he knew the secret of making them all “free” to himself by procuring ingress to the Hall through the dressing-room. He patted young Spiridonoff patronizingly on the head, and disarranged his carefully combed hair.

“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.

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.

“Why don’t you sell it?” he finally asked the actor. “A neighbor of mine, an old lady, deals in such things, and she will pay you a good price for it. An old woman by the name of Smirnoff, the whole town knows her.”

Shashkin obeyed.

* * * * *

Two days later Dr. Koshelkoff sat peacefully in his study, enjoying his pipe and thinking of things medical, when suddenly the door of his room flew open, and Alexander Smirnoff burst upon his sight. His face beamed with joy, he fairly shone, and his whole body breathed inexpressible content.

In his hands he held an object wrapped in a newspaper.