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--”