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.