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: