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.