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Updated: May 12, 2025
'Where's he going? 'To the Caucasus, and taking his young lady with him. You know the black-eyed girl, with the freckles. Silly fool! 'Your father was asking after you yesterday, observed Fustov. Viktor spat aside. 'Yes, I heard about it. You were at our den yesterday. Well, music, eh? 'As usual. Wouldn't play, eh? 'Of whom are you speaking? Fustov asked.
Fustov went into the next room, brought back a twenty-five-rouble note and handed it in silence to Viktor. The latter took it, yawned with his mouth wide open, grumbled thanks, and, shrugging and stretching, got up from the sofa. 'Foo! though... I'm bored, he muttered, 'might as well turn in to the "Italie." He moved towards the door. Fustov looked after him.
'I say, Alexander Daviditch, said he, 'you tell me, if you please, what do you look down on me for? 'How so? My friend was momentarily at a loss for a reply. As though you were yourself remarkable for such high and exalted principles, and weren't just as much a sinner as the rest of us. Worse even. Still waters... you know the proverb? Fustov turned rather red.
Viktor noticed at last the impression he was making on us, and began to get sulky; his remarks became more disconnected and his looks gloomier. He began yawning, announced that he was sleepy, and after swearing with his characteristic coarseness at the waiter for a badly cleaned pipe, he suddenly accosted Fustov, with a challenging expression on his distorted face.
Ratsch bawled from the passage putting on his goloshes noisily, and for the last time we heard his metallic laugh. '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.
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.
The reading of this manuscript so upset me, the impression made by Susanna's visit was so great, that I could not sleep all night, and early in the morning I sent an express messenger to Fustov with a letter, in which I besought him to come to Moscow as soon as possible, as his absence might have the most terrible results.
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.
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.
This idea, simple as it was, had never entered my head. My friend's practical sense had not deserted him. 'When is... her funeral? he went on. 'To-morrow. 'Are you going? 'Yes. 'To the house or straight to the church? 'To the house and to the church too; and from there to the cemetery. 'But I shan't go... I can't, I can't! whispered Fustov and began crying.
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