‘How d’ye do,’ he said in a sleepy voice, with those peculiar twitchings of the head and shoulders which I have always noticed in spoilt and conceited young men. ‘I meant to go to the University, but here I am. Sort of oppression on my chest. Give us a cigar.’ He walked right across the room, listlessly dragging his feet, and keeping his hands in his trouser - pockets, and sank heavily upon the sofa.
‘Have you caught cold?’ asked Fustov, and he introduced us to each other. We were both students, but were in different faculties.
‘No!... Likely! Yesterday, I must own...’ (here Ratsch junior smiled, again not without a certain prettiness, though he showed a set of bad teeth) ‘I was drunk, awfully drunk. Yes’ — he lighted a cigar and cleared his throat — ’Obihodov’s farewell supper.’
‘Where’s he going?’
‘To the Caucasus, and taking his young lady with him. You know the black - eyed girl, with the freckles. Silly fool!’
‘Your father was asking after you yesterday,’ observed Fustov.
Viktor spat aside. ‘Yes, I heard about it. You were at our den yesterday. Well, music, eh?’
‘As usual.’
‘And she... with a new visitor’ (here he pointed with his head in my direction) ‘she gave herself airs, I’ll be bound. Wouldn’t play, eh?’
‘Of whom are you speaking?’ Fustov asked.
‘Why, of the most honoured Susanna Ivanovna, of course!’
Viktor lolled still more comfortably, put his arm up round his head, gazed at his own hand, and cleared his throat hoarsely.
I glanced at Fustov. He merely shrugged his shoulders, as though giving me to understand that it was no use talking to such a dolt.
XI
Viktor, staring at the ceiling, fell to talking, deliberately and through his nose, of the theatre, of two actors he knew, of a certain Serafrina Serafrinovna, who had ‘made a fool’ of him, of the new professor, R., whom he called a brute. ‘Because, only fancy, what a monstrous notion! Every lecture he begins with calling over the students’ names, and he’s reckoned a liberal too! I’d have all your liberals locked up in custody!’ and turning at last his full face and whole body towards Fustov, he brought out in a half - plaintive, half - ironical voice: ‘I wanted to ask you something, Alexander Daviditch.... Couldn’t you talk my governor round somehow?... You play duets with him, you know.... Here he gives me five miserable blue notes a month.... What’s the use of that! Not enough for tobacco. And then he goes on about my not making debts! I should like to put him in my place, and then we should see! I don’t come in for pensions, not like some people.’ (Viktor pronounced these last words with peculiar emphasis.) ‘But he’s got a lot of tin, I know! It’s no use his whining about hard times, there’s no taking me in. No fear! He’s made a snug little pile!’
Fustov looked dubiously at Victor.
‘If you like,’ he began, ‘I’ll speak to your father. Or, if you like... meanwhile... a trifling sum....’
‘Oh, no! Better get round the governor... Though,’ added Viktor, scratching his nose with all his fingers at once, ‘you might hand over five - and - twenty roubles, if it’s the same to you.... What’s the blessed total I owe you?’
‘You’ve borrowed eighty - five roubles of me.’
‘Yes.... Well, that’s all right, then... make it a hundred and ten. I’ll pay it all in a lump.’
Fustov went into the next room, brought back a twenty - five - rouble note and handed it in silence to Viktor. The latter took it, yawned with his mouth wide open, grumbled thanks, and, shrugging and stretching, got up from the sofa.
‘Foo! though... I’m bored,’ he muttered, ‘might as well turn in to the “Italie.”‘
He moved towards the door.
Fustov looked after him. He seemed to be struggling with himself.
‘What pension were you alluding to just now, Viktor Ivanitch?’ he asked at last.
Viktor stopped in the doorway and put on his cap.
‘Oh, don’t you know? Susanna Ivanovna’s pension.... She gets one. An awfully curious story, I can tell you! I’ll tell it you one of these days. Quite an affair, ‘pon my soul, a queer affair. But, I say, the governor, you won’t forget about the governor, please! His hide is thick, of course — German, and it’s had a Russian tanning too, still you can get through it. Only, mind my step - mother Elenorka’s nowhere about! Dad’s afraid of her, and she wants to keep everything for her brats! But there, you know your way about! Good - bye!’
‘Ugh, what a low beast that boy is!’ cried Fustov, as soon as the door had slammed - to.
His face was burning, as though from the fire, and he turned away from me. I did not question him, and soon retired.
XII
All that day I spent in speculating about Fustov, about Susanna, and about her relations. I had a vague feeling of something like a family drama. As far as I could judge, my friend was not indifferent to Susanna. But she? Did she care for him? Why did she seem so unhappy? And altogether, what sort of creature was she? These questions were continually recurring to my mind. An obscure but strong conviction told me that it would be no use to apply to Fustov for the solution of them. It ended in my setting off the next day alone to Mr. Ratsch’s house.
I felt all at once very uncomfortable and confused directly I found myself in the dark little passage. ‘She won’t appear even, very likely,’ flashed into my mind. ‘I shall have to stop with the repulsive veteran and his cook of a wife.... And indeed, even if she does show herself, what of it? She won’t even take part in the conversation.... She was anything but warm in her manner to me the other day. Why ever did I come?’ While I was making these reflections, the little page ran to announce my presence, and in the adjoining room, after two or three wondering ‘Who is it? Who, do you say?’ I heard the heavy shuffling of slippers, the folding - door was slightly opened, and in the crack between its two halves was thrust the face of Ivan Demianitch, an unkempt and grim - looking face. It stared at me and its expression did not immediately change.... Evidently, Mr. Ratsch did not at once recognise me; but suddenly his cheeks grew rounder, his eyes narrower, and from his opening mouth, there burst, together with a guffaw, the exclamation: ‘Ah! my dear sir! Is it you? Pray walk in!’
I followed him all the more unwillingly, because it seemed to me that this affable, good - humoured Mr. Ratsch was inwardly wishing me at the devil. There was nothing to be done, however. He led me into the drawing - room, and in the drawing - room who should be sitting but Susanna, bending over an account - book? She glanced at me with her melancholy eyes, and very slightly bit the finger - nails of her left hand.... It was a habit of hers, I noticed, a habit peculiar to nervous people. There was no one else in the room.
‘You see, sir,’ began Mr. Ratsch, dealing himself a smack on the haunch, ‘what you’ve found Susanna Ivanovna and me busy upon: we’re at our accounts. My spouse has no great head for arithmetic, and I, I must own, try to spare my eyes. I can’t read without spectacles, what am I to do? Let the young people exert themselves, ha - ha! That’s the proper thing. But there’s no need of haste.... More haste, worse speed in catching fleas, he - he!’
Susanna closed the book, and was about to leave the room.
‘Wait a bit, wait a bit,’ began Mr. Ratsch. ‘It’s no great matter if you’re not in your best dress....’ (Susanna was wearing a very old, almost childish, frock with short sleeves.) ‘Our dear guest is not a stickler for ceremony, and I should like just to clear up last week.... You don’t mind?’ — he addressed me. ‘We needn’t stand on ceremony with you, eh?’
‘Please don’t put yourself out on my account!’ I cried.
‘To be sure, my good friend. As you’re aware, the late Tsar Alexey Nikolavitch Romanoff used to say, “Time is for business, but a minute for recreation!” We’ll devote one minute only to that same business... ha - ha! What about that thirteen roubles and thirty kopecks?’ he added in a low voice, turning his back on me.
‘Vik
tor took it from Eleonora Karpovna; he said that it was with your leave,’ Susanna replied, also in a low voice.
‘He said... he said... my leave...’ growled Ivan Demianitch. ‘I’m on the spot myself, I fancy. Might be asked. And who’s had that seventeen roubles?’
‘The upholsterer.’
‘Oh... the upholsterer. What’s that for?’ ‘His bill.’
‘His bill. Show me!’ He pulled the book away from Susanna, and planting a pair of round spectacles with silver rims on his nose, he began passing his finger along the lines. ‘The upholsterer,.. the upholsterer... You’d chuck all the money out of doors! Nothing pleases you better!... Wie die Croaten! A bill indeed! But, after all,’ he added aloud, and he turned round facing me again, and pulled the spectacles off his nose, ‘why do this now? I can go into these wretched details later. Susanna Ivanovna, be so good as to put away that account - book, and come back to us and enchant our kind guest’s ears with your musical accomplishments, to wit, playing on the pianoforte... Eh?’
Susanna turned away her head.
‘I should be very happy,’ I hastily observed; ‘it would be a great pleasure for me to hear Susanna Ivanovna play. But I would not for anything in the world be a trouble...’
‘Trouble, indeed, what nonsense! Now then, Susanna Ivanovna, eins, zwei, drei!’
Susanna made no response, and went out.
XIII
I had not expected her to come back; but she quickly reappeared. She had not even changed her dress, and sitting down in a corner, she looked twice intently at me. Whether it was that she was conscious in my manner to her of the involuntary respect, inexplicable to myself, which, more than curiosity, more even than sympathy, she aroused in me, or whether she was in a softened frame of mind that day, any way, she suddenly went to the piano, and laying her hand irresolutely on the keys, and turning her head a little over her shoulder towards me, she asked what I would like her to play. Before I had time to answer she had seated herself, taken up some music, hurriedly opened it, and begun to play. I loved music from childhood, but at that time I had but little comprehension of it, and very slight knowledge of the works of the great masters, and if Mr. Ratsch had not grumbled with some dissatisfaction, ‘Aha! wieder dieser Beethoven!’ I should not have guessed what Susanna had chosen. It was, as I found out afterwards, the celebrated sonata in F minor, opus 57. Susanna’s playing impressed me more than I can say; I had not expected such force, such fire, such bold execution. At the very first bars of the intensely passionate allegro, the beginning of the sonata, I felt that numbness, that chill and sweet terror of ecstasy, which instantaneously enwrap the soul when beauty bursts with sudden flight upon it. I did not stir a limb till the very end. I kept, wanting — and not daring — to sigh. I was sitting behind Susanna; I could not see her face; I saw only from time to time her long dark hair tossed up and down on her shoulders, her figure swaying impulsively, and her delicate arms and bare elbows swiftly, and rather angularly, moving. The last notes died away. I sighed at last. Susanna still sat before the piano.
‘Ja, ja,’ observed Mr. Ratsch, who had also, however, listened with attention; ‘romantische Musik! That’s all the fashion nowadays. Only, why not play correctly? Eh? Put your finger on two notes at once — what’s that for? Eh? To be sure, all we care for is to go quickly, quickly! Turns it out hotter, eh? Hot pancakes!’ he bawled like a street seller.
Susanna turned slightly towards Mr. Ratsch. I caught sight of her face in profile. The delicate eyebrow rose high above the downcast eyelid, an unsteady flush overspread the cheek, the little ear was red under the lock pushed behind it.
‘I have heard all the best performers with my own ears,’ pursued Mr. Ratsch, suddenly frowning, ‘and compared with the late Field they were all — tfoo! nil! zero!! Das war ein Kerl! Und ein so reines Spiel! And his own compositions the finest things! But all those now “tloo - too - too,” and “tra - ta - ta,” are written, I suppose, more for beginners. Da braucht man keine Delicatesse! Bang the keys anyhow... no matter! It’ll turn out some how! Janitscharen Musik! Pugh!’ (Ivan Demianitch wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.) ‘But I don’t say that for you, Susanna Ivanovna; you played well, and oughtn’t to be hurt by my remarks.’
‘Every one has his own taste,’ Susanna said in a low voice, and her lips were trembling; ‘but your remarks, Ivan Demianitch, you know, cannot hurt me.’
‘Oh! of course not! Only don’t you imagine’ — Mr. Ratsch turned to me — ’don’t you imagine, my young friend, that that comes from our excessive good - nature and meekness of spirit; it’s simply that we fancy ourselves so highly exalted that — oo - oo! — we can’t keep our cap on our head, as the Russian proverb says, and, of course, no criticism can touch us. The conceit, my dear sir, the conceit!’
I listened in surprise to Mr. Ratsch. Spite, the bitterest spite, seemed as it were boiling over in every word he uttered.... And long it must have been rankling! It choked him. He tried to conclude his tirade with his usual laugh, and fell into a husky, broken cough instead. Susanna did not let drop a syllable in reply to him, only she shook her head, raised her face, and clasping her elbows with her hands, stared straight at him. In the depths of her fixed, wide - open eyes the hatred of long years lay smouldering with dim, unquenchable fire. I felt ill at ease.
‘You belong to two different musical generations,’ I began, with an effort at lightness, wishing by this lightness to suggest that I noticed nothing, ‘and so it is not surprising that you do not agree in your opinions.... But, Ivan Demianitch, you must allow me to take rather... the side of the younger generation. I’m an outsider, of course; but I must confess nothing in music has ever made such an impression on me as the... as what Susanna Ivanovna has just played us.’
Ratsch pounced at once upon me.
‘And what makes you suppose,’ he roared, still purple from the fit of coughing, ‘that we want to enlist you on our side? We don’t want that at all! Freedom for the free, salvation for the saved! But as to the two generations, that’s right enough; we old folks find it hard to get on with you young people, very hard! Our ideas don’t agree in anything: neither in art, nor in life, nor even in morals; do they, Susanna Ivanovna?’
Susanna smiled a contemptuous smile.
‘Especially in regard to morals, as you say, our ideas do not agree, and cannot agree,’ she responded, and something menacing seemed to flit over her brows, while her lips were faintly trembling as before.
‘Of course! of course!’ Ratsch broke in, ‘I’m not a philosopher! I’m not capable of... rising so superior! I’m a plain man, swayed by prejudices — oh yes!’
Susanna smiled again.
‘I think, Ivan Demianitch, you too have sometimes been able to place yourself above what are called prejudices.’
‘Wie so? How so, I mean? I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You don’t know what I mean? Your memory’s so bad!’
Mr. Ratsch seemed utterly taken aback.
‘I... I...’ he repeated, ‘I...’
‘Yes, you, Mr. Ratsch.’
There followed a brief silence.
‘Really, upon my word...’ Mr. Ratsch was beginning; ‘how dare you... such insolence...’
Susanna all at once drew herself up to her full height, and still holding her elbows, squeezing them tight, drumming on them with her fingers, she stood still facing Ratsch. She seemed to challenge him to conflict, to stand up to meet him. Her face was changed; it became suddenly, in one instant, extraordinarily beautiful, and terrible too; a sort of bright, cold brilliance — the brilliance of steel — gleamed in her lustreless eyes; the lips that had been quivering were compressed in one straight, mercilessly stern line. Susanna challenged Ratsch, but he gazed blankly, and suddenly subsiding into silence, all of a heap, so to say, drew his head in, even stepped back a pace. The veteran of the year twelve was afraid; there could be no mistake about that.
Susanna slowly turned her eyes from him to me, as t
hough calling upon me to witness her victory, and the humiliation of her foe, and, smiling once more, she walked out of the room.
The veteran remained a little while motionless in his arm - chair; at last, as though recollecting a forgotten part, he roused himself, got up, and, slapping me on the shoulder, laughed his noisy guffaw.
‘There, ‘pon my soul! fancy now, it’s over ten years I’ve been living with that young lady, and yet she never can see when I’m joking, and when I’m in earnest! And you too, my young friend, are a little puzzled, I do believe.... Ha - ha - ha! That’s because you don’t know old Ratsch!’
‘No.... I do know you now,’ I thought, not without a feeling of some alarm and disgust.
‘You don’t know the old fellow, you don’t know him,’ he repeated, stroking himself on the stomach, as he accompanied me into the passage. ‘I may be a tiresome person, knocked about by life, ha - ha! But I’m a good - hearted fellow, ‘pon my soul, I am!’
I rushed headlong from the stairs into the street. I longed with all speed to get away from that good - hearted fellow.
XIV
‘They hate one another, that’s clear,’ I thought, as I returned homewards; ‘there’s no doubt either that he’s a wretch of a man, and she’s a good girl. But what has there been between them? What is the reason of this continual exasperation? What was the meaning of those hints? And how suddenly it broke out! On such a trivial pretext!’
Next day Fustov and I had arranged to go to the theatre, to see Shtchepkin in ‘Woe from Wit.’ Griboyedov’s comedy had only just been licensed for performance after being first disfigured by the censors’ mutilations. We warmly applauded Famusov and Skalozub. I don’t remember what actor took the part of Tchatsky, but I well remember that he was indescribably bad. He made his first appearance in a Hungarian jacket, and boots with tassels, and came on later in a frockcoat of the colour ‘flamme du punch,’ then in fashion, and the frockcoat looked about as suitable as it would have done on our old butler. I recollect too that we were all in ecstasies over the ball in the third act. Though, probably, no one ever executed such steps in reality, it was accepted as correct and I believe it is acted in just the same way to - day. One of the guests hopped excessively high, while his wig flew from side to side, and the public roared with laughter. As we were coming out of the theatre, we jostled against Viktor in a corridor.
A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1 Page 252