IV

One day I went round to him rather early and did not find him in his

study. He called to me from the next room; sounds of panting and

splashing reached me from there. Every morning Fustov took a cold

shower-bath and afterwards for a quarter of an hour practised gymnastic

exercises, in which he had attained remarkable proficiency. Excessive

anxiety about one's physical health he did not approve of, but he did

not neglect necessary care. ('Don't neglect yourself, don't over-excite

yourself, work in moderation,' was his precept.) Fustov had not yet made

his appearance, when the outer door of the room where I was waiting flew

wide open, and there walked in a man about fifty, wearing a bluish

uniform. He was a stout, squarely-built man with milky-whitish eyes in a

dark-red face and a perfect cap of thick, grey, curly hair. This person

stopped short, looked at me, opened his mouth wide, and with a metallic

chuckle, he gave himself a smart slap on his haunch, kicking his leg up

in front as he did so.

'Ivan Demianitch?' my friend inquired through the door.

'The same, at your service,' the new comer responded. 'What are you up

to? At your toilette? That's right! that's right!' (The voice of the man

addressed as Ivan Demianitch had the same harsh, metallic note as his

laugh.) 'I've trudged all this way to give your little brother his

lesson; and he's got a cold, you know, and does nothing but sneeze. He

can't do his work. So I've looked in on you for a bit to warm myself.'

Ivan Demianitch laughed again the same strange guffaw, again dealt

himself a sounding smack on the leg, and pulling a check handkerchief

out of his pocket, blew his nose noisily, ferociously rolling his eyes,

spat into the handkerchief, and ejaculated with the whole force of his

lungs: 'Tfoo-o-o!'

Fustov came into the room, and shaking hands with both of us, asked us

if we were acquainted.

'Not a bit of it!' Ivan Demianitch boomed at once: 'the veteran of the

year twelve has not that honour!'

Fustov mentioned my name first, then, indicating the 'veteran of the

year twelve,' he pronounced: 'Ivan Demianitch Ratsch, professor of...

various subjects.'

'Precisely so, various they are, precisely,' Mr. Ratsch chimed in. 'Come

to think of it, what is there I haven't taught, and that I'm not

teaching now, for that matter! Mathematics and geography and statistics

and Italian book-keeping, ha-ha ha-ha! and music! You doubt it, my dear

sir?'--he pounced suddenly upon me--'ask Alexander Daviditch if I'm not

first-rate on the bassoon. I should be a poor sort of Bohemian--Czech, I

should say--if I weren't! Yes, sir, I'm a Czech, and my native place is

ancient Prague! By the way, Alexander Daviditch, why haven't we seen you

for so long! We ought to have a little duet... ha-ha! Really!'

'I was at your place the day before yesterday, Ivan Demianitch,' replied

Fustov.

'But I call that a long while, ha-ha!'

When Mr. Ratsch laughed, his white eyes shifted from side to side in a

strange, restless way.

'You're surprised, young man, I see, at my behaviour,' he addressed me

again. 'But that's because you don't understand my temperament. You must

just ask our good friend here, Alexander Daviditch, to tell you about

me. What'll he tell you? He'll tell you old Ratsch is a simple,

good-hearted chap, a regular Russian, in heart, if not in origin, ha-ha!

At his christening named Johann Dietrich, but always called Ivan

Demianitch! What's in my mind pops out on my tongue; I wear my heart, as

they say, on my sleeve. Ceremony of all sorts I know naught about and

don't want to neither! Can't bear it! You drop in on me one day of an

evening, and you'll see for yourself. My good woman--my wife, that

is--has no nonsense about her either; she'll cook and bake you...

something wonderful! Alexander Daviditch, isn't it the truth I'm

telling?'

Fustov only smiled, and I remained silent.

'Don't look down on the old fellow, but come round,' pursued Mr. Ratsch.

'But now...' (he pulled a fat silver watch out of his pocket and put it

up to one of his goggle eyes)'I'd better be toddling on, I suppose. I've

another chick expecting me.... Devil knows what I'm teaching him,...

mythology, by God! And he lives a long way off, the rascal, at the Red

Gate! No matter; I'll toddle off on foot. Thanks to your brother's

cutting his lesson, I shall be the fifteen kopecks for sledge hire to

the good! Ha-ha! A very good day to you, gentlemen, till we meet

again!... Eh?... We must have a little duet!' Mr. Ratsch bawled from the

passage putting on his goloshes noisily, and for the last time we heard

his metallic laugh.

V

'What a strange man!' I said, turning to Fustov, who had already set to

work at his turning-lathe. 'Can he be a foreigner? He speaks Russian so

fluently.'

'He is a foreigner; only he's been thirty years in Russia. As long ago

as 1802, some prince or other brought him from abroad... in the capacity

of secretary... more likely, valet, one would suppose. He does speak

Russian fluently, certainly.'

'With such go, such far-fetched turns and phrases,' I put in.

'Well, yes. Only very unnaturally too. They're all like that, these

Russianised Germans.'

'But he's a Czech, isn't he?'

'I don't know; may be. He talks German with his wife.'

'And why does he call himself a veteran of the year twelve? Was he in

the militia, or what?'

'In the militia! indeed! At the time of the fire he remained in Moscow

and lost all his property.... That was all he did.'

'But what did he stay in Moscow for?'

Fustov still went on with his turning.

'The Lord knows. I have heard that he was a spy on our side; but that

must be nonsense. But it's a fact that he received compensation from the

treasury for his losses.'

'He wears some sort of uniform.... I suppose he's in government service

then?'

'Yes. Professor in the cadet's corps. He has the rank of a petty

councillor.'

'What's his wife like?'

'A German settled here, daughter of a sausagemaker... or butcher....'

'And do you often go to see him?'

'Yes.'

'What, is it pleasant there?'

'Rather pleasant.'

'Has he any children?'

'Yes. Three by the German, and a son and daughter by his first wife.'

'And how old is the eldest daughter?'

'About five-and-twenty,'

I fancied Fustov bent lower over his lathe, and the wheel turned more

rapidly, and hummed under the even strokes of his feet.

'Is she good-looking?'

'That's a matter of taste. She has a remarkable face, and she's

altogether... a remarkable person.'

'Aha!' thought I. Fustov continued his work with special earnestness,

and to my next question he only responded by a grunt.

'I must make her acquaintance,' I decided.