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.