Of course, most interesting of all is his musical development, in which are involved several personalities of striking character: Duchâtel, the revolutionary, more a son, after the French fashion, than a man or a musician; Savigny, the celebrated alienist, who treats the child hypnotically in his severe illnesses; Lemonski, a rival child wonder, who is like a pig, and vulgar--which it is silly to say, because he is a beautiful artist, according to Antoine; Reuss, the great German conductor, and the boy's staunch friend, who hates "the cursed French training" of making life weigh so heavily on its youth; Jacques Charretteur, the vagabond violinist, "a man to play French music in France"; Cécile, the aunt, who has the perception to understand the little genius with the dark eyes, whose "expression was so beautiful that she could hardly bear it"; and Ribiera, the famous Spanish pianist, who "warms" the piano, in Antoine's words, and calls the boy an intelligent ape, by way of expressing his admiration. All these people are drawn with consummate skill. I think one of the most poignant passages in the book, to me, is Antoine's description of how he had _raté_ the solo at a London concert. It was at the end of the season, and he had been harassed by a thousand needless frictions: "The first part had gone pretty well, though I did not like how the Duchâtel sounded. I thought that was the violin, perhaps--and a new room. It was a bad room, pretty, but stupid for the sound. I heard much too much, so I was sure _they_ were not hearing properly. _They_ were extremely still, and made a little clapping at the end. I did not find it a good concert, but Wurst in the interval said it was very well, and I should not excite myself. So when I did not, then I was tired, and it seemed stupider than before. And at last that thing came, the Mirski 'Caprice,' which you know how detestable. The passages are hard in that thing, but I know them. Every morning I played them to Moricz, so now I do not trouble.... And then, in the middle of it, I heard Peter Axel playing wrong.... And I was frightened horribly.... And I made him an awful frown for forgetting it, and Peter was looking at me. His face was not happy like it generally is. It was like one of those worst dreams. And, of course, I stopped playing, because it cannot be like that. And Peter said 'Go back,' very quietly, making a lot of little passages and returning for me to find, do you see?" "He gave you a chance to pick up, eh?" said Philip. "And you couldn't."