’Trouble, indeed, what nonsense! Now then,
Susanna Ivanovna, eins, zwei, drei!’
Susanna made no response, and went out.
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.’
