'Piotr Gavrilitch,' thundered Mr. Ratsch, turning to me, 'let me
introduce you to my... to my... my number one, ha, ha, ha! to Susanna
Ivanovna!'
I bowed in silence, and thought at once: 'Why, the name too is not the
same sort as the others,' while Susanna rose slightly, without smiling
or loosening her tightly clasped hands.
'And how about the duet?' Ivan Demianitch pursued: 'Alexander Daviditch?
eh? benefactor! Your zither was left with us, and I've got the bassoon
out of its case already. Let us make sweet music for the honourable
company!' (Mr. Ratsch liked to display his Russian; he was continually
bursting out with expressions, such as those which are strewn broadcast
about the ultra-national poems of Prince Viazemsky.) 'What do you say?
Carried?' cried Ivan Demianitch, seeing Fustov made no objection.
'Kolka, march into the study, and look sharp with the music-stand! Olga,
this way with the zither! And oblige us with candles for the stands,
better-half!' (Mr. Ratsch turned round and round in the room like a
top.) 'Piotr Gavrilitch, you like music, hey? If you don't care for it,
you must amuse yourself with conversation, only mind, not above a
whisper! Ha, ha ha! But what ever's become of that silly chap, Viktor?
He ought to be here to listen too! You spoil him completely, Eleonora
Karpovna.'
Eleonora Karpovna fired up angrily.
'Aber was kann ich denn, Ivan Demianitch...'
'All right, all right, don't squabble! Bleibe ruhig, hast verstanden?
Alexander Daviditch! at your service, sir!'
The children had promptly done as their father had told them. The
music-stands were set up, the music began. I have already mentioned that
Fustov played the zither extremely well, but that instrument has always
produced the most distressing impression upon me. I have always fancied,
and I fancy still, that there is imprisoned in the zither the soul of a
decrepit Jew money-lender, and that it emits nasal whines and complaints
against the merciless musician who forces it to utter sounds. Mr.
Ratsch's performance, too, was not calculated to give me much pleasure;
moreover, his face became suddenly purple, and assumed a malignant
expression, while his whitish eyes rolled viciously, as though he were
just about to murder some one with his bassoon, and were swearing and
threatening by way of preliminary, puffing out chokingly husky, coarse
notes one after another. I placed myself near Susanna, and waiting for a
momentary pause, I asked her if she were as fond of music as her papa.
She turned away, as though I had given her a shove, and pronounced
abruptly, 'Who?'
'Your father,' I repeated,'Mr. Ratsch.'
'Mr. Ratsch is not my father.'
'Not your father! I beg your pardon... I must have misunderstood... But
I remember, Alexander Daviditch...'
Susanna looked at me intently and shyly.
'You misunderstood Mr. Fustov. Mr. Ratsch is my stepfather.'