[Illustration]
_Potapenko was born in 1856 and received a university education at
Odessa and at St. Petersburg. In 1881 he made his first mark as an
author with a series of short stories and sketches. Since then he has
contributed to Russian literature many romances, novels, tales and
plays. Like the Belgian dramatist, Maeterlinck, he seems to select a
few insistent notes with masterly judgment, and then strikes these over
and over again until the overtones are heard and produce of themselves
the full effect of harmony._
_The general opinion among critics of Russian literature is that
Potapenko, though ranking by no means with the first of Russian
writers, has reached in this single instance of “The Curse of Fame” a
high-water mark equal to the best._
[Illustration]
THE CURSE OF FAME
BY IGNATIY POTAPENKO
Translated by A. Lionel. Copyright, 1896,
by the Current Literature Publishing Co.
The small Hall of the Conservatory of Music was but half illuminated.
Along the walls only alternate sconces were lighted, and only those
jets of the great chandelier nearest the platform were burning. On this
particular evening--a private “Students’ Recital”--none but fellow
pupils and near relatives of the performers were admitted. The Hall was
rather empty. The visitors sat near the platform, and the students were
in possession of the back seats. This arrangement enabled the young
women to gossip among themselves, or to flirt with the young men, and
gave the latter an opportunity to besiege and conquer the young women’s
hearts. In fact it seemed as if the entire interest of the young
people at these “Students’ Recitals” centred in this occupation. The
performers were students of mediocre talent, or sometimes children who
gave promise of future proficiency, but the pieces they played had long
since ceased to arouse interest.
The nights of the “Grand Concerts” are quite a different matter. The
public is then admitted, a struggle for seats takes place, the Hall is
fully lighted, and the platform is occupied by the favorite pupils of
the professors--those idols of the Conservatory, who are some day to
make the institution famous. On these occasions the students turn out
in great numbers, and unable to find room in the crowded Hall, they
squeeze into the corridors, treading on one another’s toes.
An adult flautist with yellow mustaches has just concluded his number,
and, with a face flushed from exertion, has stepped off the platform
and disappeared in the corridor. No one has noticed whether his playing
was good or bad. He has managed to get through the piece assigned
him by his master without a mistake in the tempo. That at least is
commendable. Presently a boy came on the platform. He appeared to be
about twelve years of age. His small, oval face was pale, and his fair
hair carefully brushed and parted on one side. In one hand he held a
violin, somewhat smaller than the usual size, and in the other hand
the bow. He was dressed in a short, dark gray coat and knickerbockers.
Probably neither the appearance nor the playing of this boy would
have attracted any more attention than that of the flautist had the
professor not followed him on the platform, and seating himself at
the piano, commenced a little preliminary improvisation. He evidently
intended to play the boy’s accompaniment. This caused some surprise and
stir in the back rows.
“Who is the boy? Onkel himself is going to play his accompaniment!”
queried the young lady pianists of their neighbors, the barytones.
These barytones were the acknowledged irresistibles of the institution.
They sat in studied attitudes and answered questions loftily, scarcely
deigning to open their teeth. But this time they could make no reply.
“What? Don’t you know?” respectfully asked the trombone player who sat
in front, turning his head. Trombone players are generally of awkward,
timid disposition, and while barytones, tenors, basses, and violinists
revel in dreams of future greatness, the trombonist’s aspirations rise
no higher than the back row of the orchestra. This must account for
the lady pianists’ hardness of heart toward them, not to speak of the
indifference of the lady singers, who are so constantly devoured by the
ardent fire of their ambition.
“It is Spiridonoff, who is full of brilliant promise,” explained the
trombonist. “Onkel says he’ll be a second Paganini, and he hopes to
make his own name famous through the boy.”
“Oh, Spiridonoff! Is that he?”
For the last year all have heard and spoken of Spiridonoff. The boy had
made marvelous progress. Even now he could have played in public and
put many a grown violinist to shame. But Onkel would not allow it. He
guarded his young talent with the utmost care.
“Why is he so pale, poor little fellow?” asked the florid soprano,
whose interest had been aroused by the words of the trombonist.
“Pallor is an attribute of true talent,” stated the baritone. He had a
pale face surmounted by a shock of black hair.
The trombonist, overwhelmed by the remark--he possessed neither pallor
nor talent--again turned his face to the platform.
Among the friends of the performers, in the second row, on the last
chair to the left, sat a man whose eyes were riveted on the boy with
unswerving attention. He was tall and slender. His thin hair was combed
over from the right temple to the left, and stuck down with pomatum
in an evident desire to hide a conspicuous baldness. He must have
been over fifty years of age, as there were many and deep wrinkles
in his forehead, and his cheeks, and around his eyes and chin. His
thin hair too was thickly streaked with gray. The strongly marked
eyebrows expressed determination and obstinacy, yet there was a look
of gentleness in the eyes. At the present moment he was evidently in
an excited, emotional and expectant frame of mind. He wore a long,
old-fashioned, black coat, carefully buttoned up to the chin.
The pale boy played. The audience particularly liked the unusual
firmness with which he held his violin, and that he used his bow like a
familiar weapon. Professor Onkel had acted boldly in selecting a showy
concert piece instead of a pupils’ “study.” But what would you? The old
professor was greedy for notoriety, and anxious to display the result
of his style of teaching. He succeeded well, for Spiridonoff played
splendidly. He executed the difficult passages with great precision,
and when feeling was to be expressed, he pressed his bow on the string
with laudable correctness. Onkel in his piano accompaniment introduced
every variety of light and shade. His whole body assisted in the work.
He would straighten himself, stretch his neck, or slowly throw himself
back in his chair; at other times he would suddenly fling himself over
the keys--in short he played with his entire being, which of course
deepened the impression produced by the performance. All admired the
young virtuoso, whose thin little legs seemed hardly able to support
his fragile frame. When he finished playing the applause resounded.
This was against the rules, but what rules can control outbursts of
wonder and delight?
Spiridonoff made a hasty, awkward little bow, and left the platform,
followed by Onkel, swelling with pride and pompousness.
While the next aspirant to fame tortured his instrument on the
platform, a small crowd gathered in the corridor and surrounded the
boy. The grand Mæcænas with the long gray beard was there. This patron
of the institution never missed a single free concert; in fact, he knew
the secret of making them all “free” to himself by procuring ingress
to the Hall through the dressing-room. He patted young Spiridonoff
patronizingly on the head, and disarranged his carefully combed hair.
“You have great talent. You will make the reputation of the
Conservatory, the fame of Russia,” he said, gulping his words as if in
the act of hastily swallowing hot tea.
The young ladies gazed tenderly at the boy, and sighed pityingly at his
emaciation and pallor.
Professor Brendel passed by. He, too, was a violinist, but very unlike
Onkel. Brendel was tall and slim, Onkel was short and stout. Brendel
came from Leipsic, Onkel came from Munich. Brendel hated Onkel,
because he was a violinist, and according to Brendel there should be
but one violinist in the world, and that one--Brendel. Secondly, he
hated Onkel, because this wonder, this little Spiridonoff of whom
every one was talking, had been discovered in Onkel’s class, and not
in his--Brendel’s. Lastly, he hated Onkel because the latter dared to
exist. Brendel stopped by Spiridonoff and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Not bad!” he said with a Leipsic accent. “Your technique is good for
your age, but why did you make so many mistakes?”
This was untrue, and against his own conscience, but he wished to say
something disagreeable in the presence of Onkel.
“He made fewer mistakes than Professor Brendel does in making that
remark,” replied Onkel with a Munich accent.
Brendel pretended not to hear as he disappeared at the end of the
corridor.
Little Spiridonoff was tormented on all sides. They peered into his
eyes, they slapped him on the shoulder, they patted his head, stroked
his cheeks, chucked him under the chin, every one encouraged him and
predicted future greatness.
He looked at them all sadly, and received their praises with
indifference. He apparently felt shy and weary amid all these
ebullitions of feeling. His eyes searched anxiously for some one, and
finally rested reassured on the wrinkled face of the tall man, who
some minutes before had sat at the end of the second row, and listened
to him with such close attention. The man eagerly noted all the
compliments showered on the boy. He was leaning against the half-open
door of a classroom, which was this evening serving for a green room,
and holding a child’s thick overcoat in one hand and in the other a
violin case. He approached the boy, relieved him of his violin and bow,
and placed them in the case with care. Then, after putting on the boy’s
overcoat, and muffling a white silk handkerchief around his neck, he
took him by the hand, and led him downstairs.
“Spiridonoff,” Onkel called, arresting their steps, “prepare yourself
for the Grand Concert.”
The man in the black, buttoned-up coat made a bow, and then continued
downstairs, solicitously assisting the boy at every step.
“That’s his father,” somebody remarked.
“Fortunate father,” exclaimed Onkel, much elated at Spiridonoff’s
success.
* * * * *
It was a winter morning, and that early hour when the cold is even
severer than during the night. The streets were still dark, and the
lamps burning. None but belated pleasure seekers hastening to reach
home, or factory workmen wrapped in sheepskins hurrying to their work,
were to be seen about. While the rest of the population were yet
lost in sleep, a fire was lighted in the small, dingy house of the
government clerk, Spiridonoff. He had risen at six o’clock, washed and
dressed, said his prayers, and cautiously tiptoed into the hall. The
house was terribly cold. Mrs. Spiridonoff, who was twenty years younger
than her husband, lay sleeping in a large bed with two of her children.
Her head was swathed in a cloth, and a mass of clothing was piled on
the top of the blanket. This was the only way in which they could keep
themselves warm. Old Spiridonoff went through the hall, and feeling
for the kitchen door, opened it and entered. A burning lamp emitted an
unbearable odor. The cook, like her mistress, was covered over head and
ears in rags. It was difficult to tell her head from her feet.
“Arina! Arina!” called Spiridonoff in a low voice, shaking her with
both hands. “Get up, it is past six o’clock.”
A sigh issued from the rags. Arina was evidently still sleepy, and
unwilling to exchange the warmth of the bed for the outside cold.
“Arina, have we any wood?”
“Wood?” answered a voice as if from a tomb, “perhaps enough to heat one
stove.”
“Good. Get up and light the fire in Mitia’s room. At once, do you
hear? He’ll be getting up soon.” Arina’s nose appeared from under the
bedclothes.
“In Mitia’s room? His was heated yesterday. Perhaps it would be better
to have a fire in the bedroom. It hasn’t had one for two days.”
“No, no, no. Mitia’s, do you hear? Mitia’s room must be warm.”
Arina growled her disapproval, nevertheless she got up as soon as
Spiridonoff left the room, and after putting on all the rags which had
served as her bed covering, she collected the wood which lay under the
kitchen table.
“Devils--Anathemas,” she grunted, but in such tones that no one could
hear her. “Call themselves gentlefolks--keep a cook indeed--haven’t
money enough to buy a log of wood. Mitia is the only one who is kept
warm.”
Spiridonoff went into the bedroom, and letting down the cambric
bed-curtain, lit a candle. He had on a coat of fox fur, so old that it
hung in tatters, and could only be worn for domestic work. He sat down
by the table, took a pen, and began writing with half frozen fingers.
From time to time he laid down his pen, breathed on his hands, warmed
them by the candle flame, and then resumed his work. In half an hour he
went to see how Mitia’s stove was getting on. It was beginning to feel
warm.
“Arina!” again ordered Spiridonoff, “take a piatak” (about three
cents). “Here is a piatak. Run to the little store and buy some milk
and boil it. Mitia is going to get up, and it must be ready.” Arina
muttered that she didn’t care, milk or no milk, boil or not boil--yet
she started off to buy it just the same. Spiridonoff continued to
write, warm his hands by the candle, and write again. Arina came to
announce that the milk was boiling.
“Aha! Good!”
The old man rose and softly opened the door to the left. The dim light
thrown by the candle from the bedroom disclosed a very small room
containing only three articles of furniture--a child’s bed, a chair,
and a music-stand. In the bed the little virtuoso of last night, Mitia
Spiridonoff slumbered sweetly with the blanket drawn up to his chin.
The chair served to hold his clothes, the stand his music, while on
the floor stood the case containing his violin. The room was not cold.
The stove had not had time to get chilled off after yesterday’s fire,
before the warmth of the new fire made itself felt. Spiridonoff took
the candle, and shutting the bedroom door, cautiously sat down on the
little bed. “Mitenka, Mitenka!” he called in a tender low voice.
Mitia opened his eyes with an effort, but immediately closed them again.
“Mitenka, don’t you want to get up? Eh? Won’t you take some hot milk?
Eh?”
Mitia again opened his eyes. At first he looked surprised, as if he
didn’t understand what was wanted of him. Then he recognized his
father, and made a pathetic grimace, expressing great disinclination to
be roused from his sleep.
“You don’t want to? Wish to sleep? Well, sleep, sleep. The milk can
wait.”
Mitia turned over on his side and hid his face from the old man.
But the old man did not leave him. He sat still for a moment, then
stretched out his hand and patted the boy on the back.
“But perhaps you will get up, eh? Mitenka! It’s nearly seven o’clock,
and at ten you have to go to your class. When will you do your
practising? You’d better get up, Mitenka, and drink some warm milk.”
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?”
“Certainly, mother,” answered Mitia sweetly, smiling at his youngest
sister who, happy in feeling warm, had begun to play, and was trying to
creep into the violin case.
At half-past nine Anton Egoritsch himself brought him an omelet, and
taking the violin from his hand, placed it in the case. Mitia hastily
ate the omelet, his father almost feeding him while drawing on an old
uniform. Anton Egoritsch was soon due at his post in the Chancery
Department, where he occupied the lowest and worst paid position--that
of copyist. He intended to hand in the work he had done at home, for
which he hoped to get extra pay. In that case a fire would be lighted
in the bedroom, and the little girls would have breakfast. Now they
could only have weak tea and rye bread, and gaze at Mitia’s omelet
with hungry eyes. Mitia would gladly share it with them, but Anton
Egoritsch was inexorable.
“Have patience, children, have patience. Father will get some extra
money, and then you shall breakfast too. Mitenka must eat. He needs all
his strength. He’ll be an artist, and provide for us all, and make us
famous. That’s what he’ll do, children.”
Anna Nikitischna, who never contradicted her husband, looked sadly at
her son. Her heart contracted painfully at the sight of his thin body,
his pale little face, and hollow cheeks. “The food does him no good,”
she thought, “and whatever the future may bring, at present he looks
wretched.” It was not that she doubted Mitia’s future fame; on the
contrary her heart joyfully inclined to the belief when Anton Egoritsch
related to her how surprised and delighted the audience had been last
night, and how they had vied with each other in treating Mitia as a
phenomenon. She simply understood nothing about it all, and when she
listened to the monotonous exercises her son was constantly practising,
she couldn’t tell whether the playing was good or bad.
After the omelet was finished, Anton Egoritsch wrapped up his son and
took him to the Conservatory. Mitia not only studied music there,
but also other subjects. The first lesson to-day happened to be “the
Russian language.” There were about thirty boys in the class. The
teacher had not yet arrived, and Mitia found himself in the midst of
a scrimmage, which turned out to be a game. He joined in the romp,
and was soon jumping and turning somersaults with unusual activity
and liveliness. What the others did, he did. He felt cheerful and
unrestrained. The deep depression which fell on him in consequence of
incessant and hard practising instantly vanished. The boys paid him no
especial attention, but just treated him like one of themselves. No one
seemed to remember the laurels he had won last night, or dwell upon
the fact that he was the most talented student of the Conservatory.
They were all aware of it, but there was no time to give it a thought
at such a moment. The game was a very close one, and the combat of the
contending parties very sharp.
The teacher entered, every boy scrambled to his place, and quiet was
restored.
Mitia breathed hard, his cheeks burned hotly, and a pleasant warmth
diffused itself over his small frail body, a sensation due to the
exercise and healthy fatigue of all his muscles.
“If mother could see me now, how pleased she would be!” thought the
boy, remembering how frequently she would sigh when she looked at him
and say, “Poor child, why are you so pale?”
The lesson over, another recess, another game--more movement, noise,
laughter--the free expansion of childhood! These times were Mitia’s
hours of rest. Let it not be imagined he did not love his work. The
violin was his vocation. Three years ago, when he was nine years old,
he had begged his father to buy him one, and was very happy when a
friend of his father, a fifth-rate musician, taught him how to hold the
violin and bow. He began to scrape from morning to night, profiting
by the few hints from the musician. He was quick to comprehend and
apply the advice given him. Anton Egoritsch at first regarded it as a
simple, childish amusement; then an agreeable uncertainty pervaded his
mind. His son might possibly have talent--great talent! He had often
heard stories of great musicians, who had sprung from poor and obscure
origin. What if his son were destined to greatness, to make his family
famous--the poor insignificant Spiridonoff--and, above all, destined
to make a fortune, and to lift them all out of this miserable poverty!
The idea entirely possessed him, and a year later he took the boy to
the Conservatory. He returned after Mitia’s first examination with
whirling brain. The committee were delighted with the child. His style
of playing, acquired from the fifth-rate musician, broke every artistic
rule, yet the boy’s talent was so evident it showed in every movement
of the bow. Onkel emphatically declared he would give up Spiridonoff
to nobody, and that he, Onkel, as the oldest professor of the
institution, had the right of choice. This Brendel denied, asserting
that Onkel had already ruined more than one pupil’s talent, that he
did nothing but ruin, in fact couldn’t do otherwise, as he taught the
Munich method--that is to say, a bad method. Then Onkel in his turn
derided the Dresden method, proclaiming there was but one method in the
world--the Munich.
Their altercation, conducted in Russian, grew loader and louder, and
at last when it reached the shooting stage, lapsed into German, Onkel
using epithets peculiar to Munich, and Brendel those distinctive of
Leipsic. The dispute had to be settled by the Advisory Committee, who
assigned Mitia Spiridonoff to Onkel. From that moment Brendel doubted
Mitia’s talent. But this did not trouble Anton Egoritsch. He was
convinced of his son’s future fame and wealth, and felt grateful to
fortune for sending him such good luck. His whole soul became centred
in rearing up the prospective greatness of the Spiridonoff family. He
wanted to coerce fate. His scant earnings were all spent on Mitia. Of
the two rooms occupied by the family, one was given to Mitia, because
he needed pure air and quiet. The rest were crowded in the other room,
which served as bedroom, nursery, workroom, dining-room, and parlor.
Mitia was well and warmly clad, while the little girls ran around in
anything. Mitia’s food was unlike theirs. He had breakfast, and a
different piece of meat for his dinner, also milk and sweetmeats. Mitia
had a comfortable little bed, a soft coverlet, and clean and whole
linen. Mitia was treated like a well-paying boarder in a poor family.
Anton Egoritsch was so absorbed in his enthusiastic cultivation of the
boy’s talent, and the glory it would bring to the Spiridonoffs that he
often forgot the very existence of the other members of his family.
Mitia on his part was forced to pay for all this attention. Every step
he took was watched, every minute of his time was taken possession of
by his father. The old man entrusted him solely to the Conservatory,
believing that every second spent there brought his son nearer to the
goal. But as soon as Mitia returned from the Conservatory, and had had
his dinner, the old man would fondle him with one hand and with the
other pass him the violin.
“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.”
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.
“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:
“You see, Mitenka darling, how good it was you listened to me. See how
surprised they were.”
When they were preparing to depart, and Anton Egoritsch was busied
in wrapping up Mitia as if he were a delicate flower, which had to
withstand the frost, Klaider, who was also getting ready to go out,
approached them.
“Mr. Spiridonoff, won’t you please let your son come to us to-day?”
entreated the fair boy.
Anton Egoritsch grew red. This time he was angry, and would not
even give an answer. He took Mitia into the street, carrying his
violin-case, and they stepped into a hired sleigh. Klaider gazed after
them and thought, “What a stern father Spiridonoff has.”
When they reached home, Mitia greatly pleased his father. Hardly had he
eaten his dinner, when, of his own accord, he snatched up his violin,
and commenced playing with a zeal Anton Egoritsch had not observed in
him for a long time. The child played without stopping. If now and then
he allowed himself a moment’s pause, as soon as the door would open,
and Anton Egoritsch appear on the threshold, he would convulsively
seize his bow and play on faster. Mitia did not himself realize what
made him do this. He was only conscious that if he heard the usual
“Mitenka darling, little dove, you must do your best. You must surprise
everybody to-morrow,” his hands would begin to tremble, and he would
drop the violin to the floor. Therefore he continued to play on and
on--to exhaustion, to stupefaction, only not to hear those or any other
words from Anton Egoritsch. But when night set in, and the candles were
lit, Mitia suddenly put down the violin, and said: “I am sleepy, papa.”
“But how so, Mitenka? You mustn’t go to bed like this. You must first
drink some tea and get warm.”
“No, I want to sleep,” declared Mitia, sitting on the side of his bed,
and taking off his boots. Anton Egoritsch was going to assist him as
was his wont, but Mitia said:
“It’s not necessary, father. I will do it myself,” and he quickly
slipped off his clothes and crept under the blanket, adding: “Father,
put out the candle.”
Anton Egoritsch was somewhat taken aback by this uncommon behavior. He
always undressed Mitia and put him to bed; however, he did not venture
to disturb the hero of to-morrow by further questions. He bent down to
kiss him good night, but Mitia covered his head, and Anton Egoritsch
had to content himself with making the sign of the cross over him and
saying:
“Well, sleep, little dove, sleep,” thinking meanwhile that the boy was
displaying the capricious nature of the artist. He placed the candle
on the chair by the bedside with some matches, and then withdrew on
tiptoe, carefully closing the door.
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:
“Calm yourself, Madam, and tell us what is the matter. We will do all
we can for you.”
But he felt ashamed of these politely sympathetic words when he
finally succeeded in learning that the woman was the mother of Mitia
Spiridonoff, and that the hope and future pride of the Conservatory
had that morning hanged himself in his room by a leather belt. He was
further shocked to learn that Anton Egoritsch, that honorable elderly
man, whom they had all so often seen leading his son by the hand, had
lost his reason, that he neither saw nor heard, but sat hugging Mitia’s
violin, kissing it and saying: “This is my son, my son. He will make us
famous.”
When Onkel heard of the catastrophe, he staggered and fell back heavily
in his chair. He narrowly escaped a paralytic stroke. Through Mitia’s
death the greatest chance of his life to acquire fame was lost.
In half an hour the Conservatory was in a state of horror. The terrible
news had rapidly spread from mouth to mouth. The ladies cried, fainted,
or went into hysterics.
The following day the entire Conservatory was at the funeral of Mitia
Spiridonoff. His playfellows carried the small coffin, followed by his
grief-stricken mother and little sisters. Anton Egoritsch alone was not
there. They had been compelled to send him to the asylum. He had broken
into ravings and cursings by Mitia’s coffin.