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 though 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.

‘You were in the theatre!’ he cried, flinging his arms about. ‘How was it I didn’t see you? I’m awfully glad I met you. You must come and have supper with me. Come on; I’ll stand the supper!’

Young Ratsch seemed in an excited, almost ecstatic, frame of mind. His little eyes darted to and fro; he was grinning, and there were spots of red on his face.

‘Why this gleefulness?’ asked Fustov.

‘Why? Wouldn’t you like to know, eh?’ Viktor drew us a little aside, and pulling out of his trouser-pocket a whole bundle of the red and blue notes then in use waved them in the air.

Fustov was surprised.

‘Has your governor been so liberal?’

Viktor chuckled.

‘He liberal! You just try it on!… This morning, relying on your intercession, I asked him for cash. What do you suppose the old skinflint answered? «I’ll pay your debts,» says he, «if you like. Up to twenty-five roubles inclusive!» Do you hear, inclusive! No, sir, this was a gift from God in my destitution. A lucky chance.’

‘Been robbing someone?’ Fustov hazarded carelessly.

Viktor frowned.

‘Robbing, no indeed! I won it, won it from an officer, a guardsman. He only arrived from Petersburg yesterday. Such a chain of circumstances! It’s worth telling… only this isn’t the place. Come along to Yar’s; not a couple of steps. I’ll stand the show, as I said!’

We ought, perhaps, to have refused; but we followed without making any objection.

XV

At Yar’s we were shown into a private room; supper was served, champagne was brought.