We followed the hearse towards the cemetery. We were forty in number, of
all sorts and conditions, nothing else really than an idle crowd. The
wearisome journey lasted more than an hour. The weather became worse and
worse. Halfway there Viktor got into a carriage, but Mr. Ratsch stepped
gallantly on through the sloppy snow; just so must he have stepped
through the snow when, after the fateful interview with Semyon
Matveitch, he led home with him in triumph the girl whose life he had
ruined for ever. The 'veteran's' hair and eyebrows were edged with snow;
he kept blowing and uttering exclamations, or manfully drawing deep
breaths and puffing out his round, dark-red cheeks.... One really might
have thought he was laughing. 'On my death the pension was to pass to
Ivan Demianitch'; these words from Susanna's manuscript recurred again
to my mind. We reached the cemetery at last; we moved up to a freshly
dug grave. The last ceremony was quickly performed; all were chilled
through, all were in haste. The coffin slid on cords into the yawning
hole; they began to throw earth on it. Mr. Ratsch here too showed the
energy of his spirit, so rapidly, with such force and vigour, did he
fling clods of earth on to the coffin lid, throwing himself into an
heroic pose, with one leg planted firmly before him... he could not have
shown more energy if he had been stoning his bitterest foe. Viktor, as
before, held himself aloof; he kept muffling himself up in his coat, and
rubbing his chin in the fur of his collar. Mr. Ratsch's other children
eagerly imitated their father. Flinging sand and earth was a source of
great enjoyment to them, for which, of course, they were in no way to
blame. A mound began to rise up where the hole had been; we were on the
point of separating, when Mr. Ratsch, wheeling round to the left in
soldierly fashion, and slapping himself on the thigh, announced to all
of us 'gentlemen present,' that he invited us, and also the 'reverend
clergy,' to a 'funeral banquet,' which had been arranged at no great
distance from the cemetery, in the chief saloon of an extremely superior
restaurant, 'thanks to the kind offices of our honoured friend Sigismund
Sigismundovitch.'... At these words he indicated the assistant of the
police superintendent, and added that for all his grief and his Lutheran
faith, he, Ivan Demianitch Ratsch, as a genuine Russian, put the old
Russian usages before everything. 'My spouse,' he cried, 'with the
ladies that have accompanied her, may go home, while we gentlemen
commemorate in a modest repast the shade of Thy departed servant!' Mr.
Ratsch's proposal was received with genuine sympathy; 'the reverend
clergy' exchanged expressive glances with one another, while the officer
of roads and highways slapped Ivan Demianitch on the shoulder, and
called him a patriot and the soul of the company.
We set off all together to the restaurant. In the restaurant, in the
middle of a long, wide, and quite empty room on the first storey, stood
two tables laid for dinner, covered with bottles and eatables, and
surrounded by chairs. The smell of whitewash, mingled with the odours of
spirits and salad oil, was stifling and oppressive. The police
superintendent's assistant, as the organiser of the banquet, placed the
clergy in the seats of honour, near which the Lenten dishes were crowded
together conspicuously; after the priests the other guests took their
seats; the banquet began. I would not have used such a festive word as
banquet by choice, but no other word would have corresponded with the
real character of the thing. At first the proceedings were fairly quiet,
even slightly mournful; jaws munched busily, and glasses were emptied,
but sighs too were audible--possibly sighs of digestion, but possibly
also of feeling. There were references to death, allusions to the
brevity of human life, and the fleeting nature of earthly hopes. The
officer of roads and highways related a military but still edifying
anecdote. The priest in the calotte expressed his approval, and himself
contributed an interesting fact from the life of the saint, Ivan the
Warrior. The priest with the superbly arranged hair, though his
attention was chiefly engrossed by the edibles, gave utterance to
something improving on the subject of chastity. But little by little all
this changed. Faces grew redder, and voices grew louder, and laughter
reasserted itself; one began to hear disconnected exclamations,
caressing appellations, after the manner of 'dear old boy,' 'dear heart
alive,' 'old cock,' and even 'a pig like that'--everything, in fact, of
which the Russian nature is so lavish, when, as they say, 'it comes
unbuttoned.' By the time that the corks of home-made champagne were
popping, the party had become noisy; some one even crowed like a cock,
while another guest was offering to bite up and swallow the glass out of
which he had just been drinking. Mr. Ratsch, no longer red but purple,
suddenly rose from his seat; he had been guffawing and making a great
noise before, but now he asked leave to make a speech. 'Speak! Out with
it!' every one roared; the old man in the smock even bawled 'bravo!' and
clapped his hands... but he was already sitting on the floor. Mr. Ratsch
lifted his glass high above his head, and announced that he proposed in
brief but 'impressionable' phrases to refer to the qualities of the
noble soul which,'leaving here, so to say, its earthly husk (die
irdische Hülle) has soared to heaven, and plunged...' Mr. Ratsch
corrected himself: 'and plashed....' He again corrected himself: 'and
plunged...'
'Father deacon! Reverend sir! My good soul!' we heard a subdued but
insistent whisper, 'they say you've a devilish good voice; honour us
with a song, strike up: "We live among the fields!"'
'Sh! sh!... Shut up there!' passed over the lips of the guests.
...'Plunged all her devoted family,' pursued Mr. Ratsch, turning a
severe glance in the direction of the lover of music, 'plunged all her
family into the most irreplaceable grief! Yes!' cried Ivan Demianitch,
'well may the Russian proverb say, "Fate spares not the rod."...'
'Stop! Gentlemen!' shouted a hoarse voice at the end of the table, 'my
purse has just been stolen!...'
'Ah, the swindler!' piped another voice, and slap! went a box on the
ear.
Heavens! What followed then! It was as though the wild beast, till then
only growling and faintly stirring within us, had suddenly broken from
its chains and reared up, ruffled and fierce in all its hideousness. It
seemed as though every one had been secretly expecting 'a scandal,' as
the natural outcome and sequel of a banquet, and all, as it were, rushed
to welcome it, to support it.... Plates, glasses clattered and rolled
about, chairs were upset, a deafening din arose, hands were waving in
the air, coat-tails were flying, and a fight began in earnest.
'Give it him! give it him!' roared like mad my neighbour, the
fishmonger, who had till that instant seemed to be the most peaceable
person in the world; it is true he had been silently drinking some dozen
glasses of spirits. 'Thrash him!...'
Who was to be thrashed, and what he was to be thrashed for, he had no
idea, but he bellowed furiously.
The police superintendent's assistant, the officer of roads and
highways, and Mr. Ratsch, who had probably not expected such a speedy
termination to his eloquence, tried to restore order... but their
efforts were unavailing. My neighbour, the fishmonger, even fell foul of
Mr. Ratsch himself.
'He's murdered the young woman, the blasted German,' he yelled at him,
shaking his fists; 'he's bought over the police, and here he's crowing
over it!!'
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.