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?”