I could hear him moving about in the parlour with Sónya, and the sound of her high childish voice. I sent tea to him there; and I heard him sit down at the piano and strike the keys with Sónya’s little hands.

Then his voice came⁠—“Márya Alexándrovna, come here and play something.”

I liked his easy behaviour to me and his friendly tone of command; I got up and went to him.

“Play this,” he said, opening a book of Beethoven’s music at the adagio of the Moonlight Sonata . “Let me hear how you play,” he added, and went off to a corner of the room, carrying his cup with him.