“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.”