At this point the waiters ran in.... What happened
further I don’t know; I snatched up my cap in
all haste, and made off as fast as my legs would carry
me! All I remember is a fearful crash; I recall,
too, the remains of a herring in the hair of the old
man in the smock, a priest’s hat flying right
across the room, the pale face of Viktor huddled up
in a corner, and a red beard in the grasp of a muscular
hand.... Such were the last impressions I carried
away of the ‘memorial banquet,’ arranged
by the excellent Sigismund Sigismundovitch in honour
of poor Susanna.
After resting a little, I set off to see Fustov, and
told him all of which I had been a witness during
that day. He listened to me, sitting still, and
not raising his head, and putting both hands under
his legs, he murmured again, ‘Ah! my poor girl,
my poor girl!’ and again lay down on the sofa
and turned his back on me.
A week later he seemed to have quite got over it,
and took up his life as before. I asked him for
Susanna’s manuscript as a keepsake: he gave
it me without raising any objection.
Several years passed by. My aunt was dead; I
had left Moscow and settled in Petersburg. Fustov
too had moved to Petersburg. He had entered the
department of the Ministry of Finance, but we rarely
met and I saw nothing much in him then. An official
like every one else, and nothing more! If he
is still living and not married, he is, most likely,
unchanged to this day; he carves and carpenters and
uses dumb-bells, and is as much a lady-killer as ever,
and sketches Napoleon in a blue uniform in the albums
of his lady friends. It happened that I had to
go to Moscow on business. In Moscow I learned,
with considerable surprise, that the fortunes of my
former acquaintance, Mr. Ratsch, had taken an adverse
turn. His wife had, indeed, presented him with
twins, two boys, whom as a true Russian he had christened
Briacheslav and Viacheslav, but his house had been
burnt down, he had been forced to retire from his
position, and worst of all, his eldest son, Viktor,
had become practically a permanent inmate of the debtors’
prison. During my stay in Moscow, among a company
at a friendly gathering, I chanced to hear an allusion
made to Susanna, and a most slighting, most insulting
allusion! I did all I could to defend the memory
of the unhappy girl, to whom fate had denied even
the charity of oblivion, but my arguments did not make
much impression on my audience. One of them, a
young student poet, was, however, a little moved by
my words. He sent me next day a poem, which I
have forgotten, but which ended in the following four
lines:
’Her tomb lies cold, forlorn, but
even death
Her gentle spirit’s memory
cannot save
From the sly voice of slander whispering
on,
Withering the flowers on her forsaken
tomb....’
