“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: