I was very bold and resolute in sending Fustov to the Ratsches'; but
when I set out there myself at twelve o'clock (nothing would induce
Fustov to go with me, he only begged me to give him an exact account of
everything), when round the corner of the street their house glared at
me in the distance with a yellowish blur from the coffin candles at one
of the windows, an indescribable panic made me hold my breath, and I
would gladly have turned back.... I mastered myself, however, and went
into the passage. It smelt of incense and wax; the pink cover of the
coffin, edged with silver lace, stood in a corner, leaning against the
wall. In one of the adjoining rooms, the dining-room, the monotonous
muttering of the deacon droned like the buzzing of a bee. From the
drawing-room peeped out the sleepy face of a servant girl, who murmured
in a subdued voice, 'Come to do homage to the dead?' She indicated the
door of the dining-room. I went in. The coffin stood with the head
towards the door; the black hair of Susanna under the white wreath,
above the raised lace of the pillow, first caught my eyes. I went up
sidewards, crossed myself, bowed down to the ground, glanced... Merciful
God! what a face of agony! Unhappy girl! even death had no pity on her,
had denied her--beauty, that would be little--even that peace, that
tender and impressive peace which is often seen on the faces of the
newly dead. The little, dark, almost brown, face of Susanna recalled the
visages on old, old holy pictures. And the expression on that face! It
looked as though she were on the point of shrieking--a shriek of
despair--and had died so, uttering no sound... even the line between the
brows was not smoothed out, and the fingers on the hands were bent back
and clenched. I turned away my eyes involuntarily; but, after a brief
interval, I forced myself to look, to look long and attentively at her.
Pity filled my soul, and not pity alone. 'That girl died by violence,' I
decided inwardly; 'that's beyond doubt.' While I was standing looking at
the dead girl, the deacon, who on my entrance had raised his voice and
uttered a few disconnected sounds, relapsed into droning again, and
yawned twice. I bowed to the ground a second time, and went out into the
passage.
In the doorway of the drawing-room Mr. Ratsch was already on the
look-out for me, dressed in a gay-coloured dressing-gown. Beckoning to
me with his hand, he led me to his own room--I had almost said, to his
lair. The room, dark and close, soaked through and through with the sour
smell of stale tobacco, suggested a comparison with the lair of a wolf
or a fox.