‘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.
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!’
