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Title: Yama (The Pit)

Author: Alexandra Kuprin

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YAMA [THE PIT]


Of this edition, intended for private circulation only, and
printed from type on Berkeley Antique laid paper, 950 copies have
been printed for America, and 550 for Great Britain. Also, 55
unnumbered copies, for the press.

This copy is Number 223





YAMA [THE PIT]

A NOVEL IN THREE PARTS

BY ALEXANDRA KUPRIN

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN

BY BERNARD GUILBERT GUERNEY

"All the horror is in just this, that there is no horror ..."





AUTHOR'S DEDICATION


I know that many will find this novel immoral and indecent;
nevertheless, I dedicate it with all my heart to MOTHERS AND
YOUTHS--A. K.





TRANSLATOR'S DEDICATION


I dedicate the labour of translation, in all humility and
sincerity, to K. ANDRAE. B. G. G.





INTRODUCTION


"With us, you see," Kuprin makes the reporter Platonov, his
mouthpiece, say in Yama, "they write about detectives, about
lawyers, about inspectors of the revenue, about pedagogues, about
attorneys, about the police, about officers, about sensual ladies,
about engineers, about baritones--and really, by God, altogether
well--cleverly, with finesse and talent. But, after all, all these
people are rubbish, and their life is not life, but some sort of
conjured up, spectral, unnecessary delirium of world culture. But
there are two singular realities--ancient as humanity itself: the
prostitute and the moujik. And about them we know nothing, save
some tinsel, gingerbread, debauched depictions in literature..."

Tinsel, gingerbread, debauched depictions... Let us consider some
of the ways in which this monstrous reality has been approached by
various writers. There is, first, the purely sentimental:
Prevost's Manon Les caut. Then there is the slobberingly
sentimental: Dumas' Dame aux Camelias. A third is the
necrophilically romantic: Louys' Aphrodite. The fertile Balzac has
given us no less than two: the purely romantic, in his fascinating
portraits of the Fair Imperia; and the romantically realistic, in
his Splendeurs et Miseres des Courtisanes. Reade's Peg Woffington
may be called the literary parallel of the costume drama; Defoe's
Moll Flanders is honestly realistic; Zola's Nana is rabidly so.

There is one singular fact that must be noted in connection with
the vast majority of such depictions. Punk or bona roba, lorette
or drab--put her before an artist in letters, and, lo and behold
ye! such is the strange allure emanating from the hussy, that the
resultant portrait is either that of a martyred Magdalene, or, at
the very least, has all the enigmatic piquancy of a Monna Lisa...
Not a slut, but what is a hetaera; and not a hetaera, but what is
well-nigh Kypris herself! I know of but one depiction in all
literature that possesses the splendour of implacable veracity as
well as undiminished artistry; where the portrait is that of a
prostitute, despite all her tirings and trappings; a depiction
truly deserving to be designated a portrait: the portrait supreme
of the harlot eternal--Shakespeare's Cleopatra.

Furthermore, it will be observed that such depictions, for the
most part, are primarily portraits of prostitutes, and not
pictures of prostitution. It is also a singular fact that war,
another scourge has met with similar treatment. We have the
pretty, spotless grenadiers and cuirassiers of Meissonier in
plenty; Vereshchagin is still alone in the grim starkness of his
wind-swept, snow-covered battle-fields, with black crows wheeling
over the crumpled masses of gray...

And, curiously enough, it is another great Russian, Kuprin, who is
supreme--if not unique--as a painter of the universal scourge of
prostitution, per se; and not as an incidental background for
portraits. True, he may not have entirely escaped the strange
allure, aforementioned, of the femininity he paints; for
femininity--even though fallen, corrupt, abased, is still
femininity, one of the miracles of life, to Kuprin, the lover of
life. But, even if he may be said to have used too much of the oil
of sentimentality in mixing his colours for the portraits, his
portraits are subordinate to the background; and there his eye is
true and keen, his hand steady and unflinching, his colours and
brushwork unimpeachable. Whether, like his own Platonov--who may
be called to some extent an autobiographical figure, and many of
whose experiences are Kuprin's own--"came upon the brothel" and
gathered his material unconsciously, "without any ulterior
thoughts of writing, "we do not know, nor need we rummage in his
dirty linen, as he puts it. Suffice it to say here--to cite but
two instances--that almost anyone acquainted with Russia will tell
you the full name of the rich, gay, southern port city of K--;
that any Odessite will tell you that Treppel's is merely
transplanted, for fictional reasons, from his own city to K--...

Alexandre I. Kuprin was born in 1870; 1909 marked the twenty-fifth
anniversary of his literary activity. He attained his fame only
upon the publication of his amazing, epical novel, "The Duel"--
which, just like "YAMA," is an arraignment; an arraignment of
militaristic corruption. Russian criticism has styled him the poet
of life. If Chekhov was the Wunderkind of Russian letters, Kuprin
is its enfant terrible. His range of subjects is enormous; his
power of observation and his versatility extraordinary. Gambrinus
alone would justify his place among the literary giants of Europe.
Some of his picaresques, "THE INSULT," "HORSE-THIEVES," and "OFF
THE STREET"--the last in the form of a monologue--are sheer tours
de force. "Olessiya" is possessed of a weird, unearthly beauty;
"The Shulamite" is a prose-poem of antiquity. He deals with the
life of the moujik in "Back-woods" and "The Swamp"; of the Jews,
in "The Jewess" and "The Coward"; of the soldiers, in "The
Cadets," "The Interrogation," "The Night Watch," "Delirium"; of
the actors, in "How I Was an Actor" and "In Retirement." We have
circus life in "'Allez!'" "In The Circus," "Lolly," "The Clown"--
the last a one-act playlet; factory life, in "Moloch"; provincial
life, in "Small Fry"; bohemian life, in "Captain Ribnicov" and
"The River of Life"--which no one but Kuprin could have written.
There are animal stories and flower stories; stories for children
--and for neuropaths; one story is dedicated to a jockey; another
to a circus clown; a third, if I remember rightly, to a race-
horse... "Yama" created an enormous sensation upon the publication
of the first part in volume three of the "Sbornik Zemliya"--"The
Earth Anthology"--in 1909; the second part appeared in volume
fifteen, in 1914; the third, in volume sixteen, in 1915. Both the
original parts and the last revised edition have been followed in
this translation. The greater part of the stories listed above are
available in translations, under various titles; the list, of
course, is merely a handful from the vast bulk of the fecund
Kuprin's writings, nor is any group of titles exhaustive of its
kind. "The Star of Solomon," his latest collection of stories,
bears the imprint of Helsingfors, 1920.

It must not be thought, despite its locale, that Kuprin's "Yama"
is a picture of Russian prostitution solely; it is intrinsically
universal. All that is necessary is to change the kopecks into
cents, pennies, sous or pfennings; compute the versts into miles
or metres; Jennka may be Eugenie or Jeannette; and for Yama,
simply read Whitechapel, Montmartre, or the Barbary Coast. That is
why "Yama" is a "tremendous, staggering, and truthful book--a
terrific book." It has been called notorious, lurid--even
oleographic. So are, perhaps, the picaresques of Murillo, the
pictorial satires of Hogarth, the bizarreries of Goya...

The best introduction to "Yama," however, can be given in Kuprin's
own words, as uttered by the reporter Platonov. "They do write,"
he says, "... but it is all either a lie, or theatrical effects
for children of tender years, or else a cunning symbolism,
comprehensible only to the sages of the future. But the life
itself no one as yet has touched...

"But the material here is in reality tremendous, downright
crushing, terrible... And not at all terrible are the loud phrases
about the traffic in women's flesh, about the white slaves, about
prostitution being a corroding fester of large cities, and so on,
and so on... an old hurdy-gurdy of which all have tired! No,
horrible are the everyday, accustomed trifles; these business-
like, daily, commercial reckonings; this thousand-year-old science
of amatory practice; this prosaic usage, determined by the ages.
In these unnoticeable nothings are completely dissolved such
feelings as resentment, humiliation, shame. There remains a dry
profession, a contract, an agreement, a well-nigh honest petty
trade, no better, no worse than, say, the trade in groceries. Do
you understand, gentlemen, that all the horror is in just this--
that there is no horror! Bourgeois work days--and that is all...

"More awful than all awful words, a hundredfold more awful--is
some such little prosaic stroke or other as will suddenly knock
you all in a heap, like a blow on the forehead..."

It is in such little prosaic strokes; everyday, accustomed,
characteristic trifles; minute particles of life, that Kuprin
excels. The detailism which crowds his pages is like the stippling
of Whistler; or the enumerations of the Bible; or the chiselling
of Rodin, that endows the back of the Thinker with meaning.

"We all pass by these characteristic trifles indifferently, like
the blind, as though not seeing them scattered about under our
feet. But an artist will come, and he will look over them
carefully, and he will pick them up. And suddenly he will so
skillfully turn in the sun a minute particle of life, that we
shall all cry out: 'Oh, my God! But I myself--myself!--have seen
this with my own eyes. Only it simply did not enter my head to
turn my close attention upon it.' But our Russian artists of the
word--the most conscientious and sincere artists in the whole
world--for some reason have up to this time passed over
prostitution and the brothel. Why? Really, it is difficult for me
to answer that. Perhaps because of squeamishness, perhaps out of
pusillanimity, out of fear of being signalized as a pornographic
writer; finally from the apprehension that our gossiping criticism
will identify the artistic work of the writer with his personal
life and will start rummaging in his dirty linen. Or perhaps they
can find neither the time, nor the self-denial, nor the self-
possession to plunge in head first into this life and to watch it
right up close, without prejudice, without sonorous phrases,
without a sheepish pity, in all its monstrous simplicity and
everyday activity... That material... is truly unencompassable in
its significance and weightiness... The words of others do not
suffice--even though they be the most exact--even observations,
made with a little note-book and a bit of pencil, do not suffice.
One must grow accustomed to this life, without being cunningly
wise..."

"I believe, that not now, not soon--after fifty years or so--but
there will come a writer of genius, and precisely a Russian one,
who will absorb within himself all the burdens and all the
abominations of this life and will cast them forth to us in the
form of simple, fine, and deathlessly--caustic images. And we
shall all say: 'Why, now, we ourselves have seen and known all
this, but we could not even suppose that this is so horrible! In
this coming artist I believe with all my heart."

Kuprin is too sincere, too big, to have written this with himself
in mind; yet no reader of the scathing, searing arraignment called
"Yama," will question that the great, the gigantic Kuprin has
shown "the burdens and abominations" of prostitution, in "simple,
fine, and deathlessly-caustic images"; has shown that "all the
horror is in just this--that there is no horror..." For it is as a
pitiless reflection of a "singular," sinister reality that "Yama"
stands unsurpassed.

B. G. GUERNEY.

New York City, January, 1922.





TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.


A word must be said of Kuprin's style. He is by no means a purist;
his pages bristle with neologisms and foreign--or, rather,
outlandish--words; nor has he any hesitancy in adapting and
Russianizing such words. He coins words; he is, at times, actually
Borrowesque, and not only does he resort to colloquialisms and
slang, but to dialect, cant, and even actual argot. Therein is his
glory--and, perhaps, his weakness. Therefore, an attempt has been
made, wherever corruptions, slang, and so forth, appear in the
original, to render them through the nearest English equivalents.
While this has its obvious dubieties and disadvantages, any other
course would have smacked of prettification--a fate which such a
book as "Yama" surely does not deserve.





PART ONE





CHAPTER I.


A long, long time ago, long before the railroads, the stage-
drivers--both government and private--used to live, from
generation to generation, at the very farthest confine of a large
southern city. And that is why the entire region was called the
Yamskaya Sloboda--the Stage-drivers' Borough; or simply Yamskaya,
or Yamkas--Little Ditches, or, shorter still, Yama--The Pit. In
the course of time, when hauling by steam killed off
transportation by horses, the mettlesome tribe of the stage-
drivers little by little lost its boisterous ways and its brave
customs, went over into other occupations, fell apart and
scattered. But for many years--even up to this time--a shady
renown has remained to Yama, as of a place exceedingly gay, tipsy,
brawling, and in the night-time not without danger.

Somehow it came about of itself, that on the ruins of those
ancient, long-warmed nests, where of yore the rosy-cheeked,
sprightly wives of the soldiery and the plump widows of Yama, with
their black eyebrows, had secretly traded in vodka and free love,
there began to spring up wide-open brothels, permitted by the
authorities, regulated by official supervision and subject to
express, strict rules. Towards the end of the nineteenth century
both streets of Yama--Great Yamskaya and Little Yamskaya--proved
to be entirely occupied, on one side of the street as well as the
other, exclusively with houses of ill-fame. [Footnote: "Houses of
Suffrance"--i.e., Houses of the Necessary Evil.--Trans.] Of the
private houses no more than five or six were left, but even they
were taken up by public houses, beer halls, and general stores,
catering to the needs of Yama prostitution.

The course of life, the manners and customs, are almost identical
in all the thirty-odd establishments; the difference is only in
the charges exacted for the briefly-timed love, and consequently
in certain external minutiae as well: in the assortment of more or
less handsome women, in the comparative smartness of the costumes,
in the magnificence of the premises and the luxuriousness of the
furnishings.

The most chic establishment is that of Treppel, the first house to
the left upon entering Great Yamskaya. This is an old firm. Its
present owner bears an entirely different name, and fills the post
of an elector in the city council and is even a member of the city
board. The house is of two stories, green and white, built in the
debauched pseudo-Russian style a la Ropetovsky, with little
horses, carved facings, roosters, and wooden towels bordered with
lace-also of wood; a carpet with a white runner on the stairs; in
the front hall a stuffed bear, holding a wooden platter for
visiting cards in his out-stretched paws; a parquet floor in the
ballroom, heavy raspberry silk curtains and tulle on the windows,
along the walls white and gold chairs and mirrors with gilt
frames; there are two private cabinets with carpets, divans, and
soft satin puffs; in the bedrooms blue and rose lanterns, blankets
of raw silk stuff and clean pillows; the inmates are clad in low-
cut ball gowns, bordered with fur, or in expensive masquerade
costumes of hussars, pages, fisher lasses, school-girls; and the
majority of them are Germans from the Baltic provinces--large,
handsome women, white of body and with ample breasts. At Treppel's
three roubles are taken for a visit, and for the whole night, ten.

Three of the two-rouble establishments--Sophie Vassilievna's, The
Old Kiev, and Anna Markovna's--are somewhat worse, somewhat
poorer. The remaining houses on Great Yamskaya are rouble ones;
they are furnished still worse. While on Little Yamskaya, which is
frequented by soldiers, petty thieves, artisans, and drab folk In
general, and where fifty kopecks or less are taken for time,
things are altogether filthy and poor-the floor in the parlor is
crooked, warped, and full of splinters, the windows are hung with
pieces of red fustian; the bedrooms, just like stalls, are
separated by thin partitions, which do not reach to the ceiling,
and on the beds, on top of the shaken down hay-mattresses, are
scattered torn, spotted bed-sheets and flannel blankets, dark from
time, crumpled any old way, full of holes; the air is sour and
full of fumes, with a mixture of alcohol vapours and the smell of
human emanations; the women, dressed in rags of coloured printed
calico or in sailor costumes, are for the greater part hoarse or
snuffling, with noses half fallen through, with faces preserving
traces of yesterday's blows and scratches and naively bepainted
with the aid of a red cigarette box moistened with spit.

All the year round, every evening--with the exception of the last
three days of Holy Week and the night before Annunciation, when no
bird builds its nest and a shorn wench does not plait her braid--
when it barely grows dark out of doors, hanging red lanterns are
lit before every house, above the tented, carved street doors. It
is just like a holiday out on the street--like Easter. All the
windows are brightly lit up, the gay music of violins and pianos
floats out through the panes, cabmen drive up and drive off
without cease. In all the houses the entrance doors are opened
wide, and through them one may see from the street a steep
staircase with a narrow corridor on top, and the white flashing of
the many-facetted reflector of the lamp, and the green walls of
the front hall, painted over with Swiss landscapes. Till the very
morning hundreds and thousands of men ascend and descend these
staircases. Here everybody frequents: half-shattered, slavering
ancients, seeking artificial excitements, and boys-military cadets
and high-school lads--almost children; bearded paterfamiliases;
honourable pillars of society, in goldon spectacles; and newly-
weds, and enamoured bridegrooms, and honourable professors with
renowned names; and thieves, and murderers, and liberal lawyers;
and strict guardians of morals--pedagogues, and foremost writers--
the authors of fervent, impassioned articles on the equal rights
of women; and catchpoles, and spies, and escaped convicts, and
officers, and students, and Social Democrats, and hired patriots;
the timid and the brazen, the sick and the well, those knowing
woman for the first time, and old libertines frayed by all species
of vice; clear-eyed, handsome fellows and monsters maliciously
distorted by nature, deaf-mutes, blind men, men without noses,
with flabby, pendulous bodies, with malodorous breath, bald,
trembling, covered with parasites--pot-bellied, hemorrhoidal apes.
They come freely and simply, as to a restaurant or a depot; they
sit, smoke, drink, convulsively pretend to be merry; they dance,
executing abominable movements of the body imitative of the act of
sexual love. At times attentively and long, at times with gross
haste, they choose any woman they like and know beforehand that
they will never meet refusal. Impatiently they pay their money in
advance, and on the public bed, not yet grown cold after the body
of their predecessor, aimlessly commit the very greatest and most
beautiful of all universal mysteries--the mystery of the
conception of new life. And the women with indifferent readiness,
with uniform words, with practiced professional movements, satisfy
their desires, like machines--only to receive, right after them,
during the same night, with the very same words, smiles and
gestures, the third, the fourth, the tenth man, not infrequently
already biding his turn in the waiting room.

So passes the entire night. Towards daybreak Yama little by little
grows quiet, and the bright morning finds it depopulated,
spacious, plunged into sleep, with doors shut tightly, with
shutters fixed on the windows. But toward evening the women awaken
and get ready for the following night.

And so without end, day after day, for months and years, they live
a strange, incredible life in their public harems, outcast by
society, accursed by the family, victims of the social
temperament, cloacas for the excess of the city's sensuality, the
guardians of the honour of the family--four hundred foolish, lazy,
hysterical, barren women.





CHAPTER II.


Two in the afternoon. In the second-rate, two-rouble establishment
of Anna Markovna everything is plunged in sleep. The large square
parlor with mirrors in gilt frames, with a score of plush chairs
placed decorously along the walls, with oleograph pictures of
Makovsky's Feast of the Russian Noblemen, and Bathing, with a
crystal lustre in the middle, is also sleeping, and in the quiet
and semi-darkness it seems unwontedly pensive, austere, strangely
sad. Yesterday here, as on every evening, lights burned, the most
rollicking of music rang out, blue tobacco smoke swirled, men and
women careered in couples, shaking their hips and throwing their
legs on high. And the entire street shone on the outside with the
red lanterns over the street doors and with the light from the
windows, and it seethed with people and carriages until morning.

Now the street is empty. It is glowing triumphantly and joyously
in the glare of the summer sun. But in the parlor all the window
curtains are lowered, and for that reason it is dark within, cool,
and as peculiarly uninviting as the interiors of empty theatres,
riding academies and court buildings usually are in the middle of
the day.

The pianoforte glimmers dully with its black, bent, glossy side;
the yellow, old, time-eaten, broken, gap-toothed keys glisten
faintly. The stagnant, motionless air still retains yesterday's
odour; it smells of perfumes, tobacco, the sour dampness of a
large uninhabited room, the perspiration of unclean and unhealthy
feminine flesh, face-powder, boracic-thymol soap, and the dust of
the yellow mastic with which the parquet floor had been polished
yesterday. And with a strange charm the smell of withering swamp
grass is blended with these smells. To-day is Trinity. In
accordance with an olden custom, the chambermaids of the
establishment, while their ladies were still sleeping, had bought
a whole waggon of sedge on the market, and had strewn its long,
thick blades, that crunch underfoot, everywhere about--in the
corridors, in the private cabinets, in the drawing room. They,
also, had lit the lamps before all the images. The girls, by
tradition, dare not do this with their hands, which have been
denied during the night.

And the house-porter has adorned the house-entrance, which is
carved in the Russian style, with two little felled birch-trees.
And so with all the houses--the thin white trunks with their scant
dying verdure adorn the exterior near the stoops, bannisters and
doors.

The entire house is quiet, empty and drowsy. The chopping of
cutlets for dinner can be heard from the kitchen. Liubka, one of
the girls, barefooted, in her shift, with bare arms, not good-
looking, freckled, but strong and fresh of body, has come out into
the inner court. Yesterday she had had but six guests on time, but
no one had remained for the night with her, and because of that
she had slept her fill--splendidly, delightfully, all alone, upon
a wide bed. She had risen early, at ten o'clock, and had with
pleasure helped the cook scrub the floor and the tables in the
kitchen. Now she is feeding the chained dog Amour with the sinews
and cuttings of the meat. The big, rusty hound, with long
glistening hair and black muzzle, jumps up on the girl--with his
front paws, stretching the chain tightly and rattling in the
throat from shortness of breath, then, with back and tail
undulating all over, bends his head down to the ground, wrinkles
his nose, smiles, whines and sneezes from the excitement. But she,
teasing him with the meat, shouts at him with pretended severity:

"There, you--stupid! I'll--I'll give it to you! How dare you?"

But she rejoices with all her soul over the tumult and caresses of
Amour and her momentary power over the dog, and because she had
slept her fill, and passed the night without a man, and because of
the Trinity, according to dim recollections of her childhood, and
because of the sparkling sunny day, which it so seldom befalls her
to see.

All the night guests have already gone their ways. The most
business-like, quiet and workaday hour is coming on.

They are drinking coffee in the room of the proprietress. The
company consists of five people. The proprietress herself, in
whose name the house is registered, is Anna Markovna. She is about
sixty. She is very small of stature, but dumpy: she may be
visualized by imagining, from the bottom up, three soft,
gelatinous globes--large, medium and small, pressed into each
other without any interstices; this--her skirt, torso and head.
Strange, her eyes are a faded blue, girlish, even childish, but
the mouth is that of an old person, with a moist lower lip of a
raspberry colour, impotently hanging down. Her husband--Isaiah
Savvich--is also small, a grayish, quiet, silent little old man.
He is under his wife's thumb; he was doorkeeper in this very house
even at the time when Anna Markovna served here as housekeeper. In
order to be useful in some way, he has learned, through self-
instruction, to play the fiddle, and now at night plays dance
tunes, as well as a funeral march for shopmen far gone on a spree
and craving some maudlin tears.

Then, there are the two housekeepers--senior and junior. The
senior is Emma Edwardovna. She is a tall, full woman of forty-six,
with chestnut hair, and a fat goitre of three chins. Her eyes are
encircled with black rings of hemorrhoidal origin. The face
broadens out like a pear from the forehead down to the cheeks, and
is of an earthen colour; the eyes are small, black; the nose
humped, the lips sternly pursed; the expression of the face calmly
authoritative. It is no mystery to anyone in the house that in a
year or two Anna Markovna will go into retirement, and sell her
the establishment with all its rights and furnishings, when she
will receive part in cash, and part on terms--by promissory note.
Because of this the girls honour her equally with the proprietress
and fear her somewhat. Those who fall into error she beats with
her own hands, beats cruelly, coolly, and calculatingly, without
changing the calm expression of her face. Among the girls there is
always a favourite of hers, whom she tortures with her exacting
love and fantastic jealousy. And this is far harder than her
beatings.

The other one is called Zociya. She has just struggled out of the
ranks of the common girls. The girls, as yet, call her
impersonally, flatteringly and familiarly, "little housekeeper."
She is spare, spry, just a trifle squinting, with a rosy
complexion, and hair dressed in a little curly pompadour; she
adores actors--preferably stout comedians. Toward Emma Edwardovna
she is ingratiating.

The fifth person, finally, is the local district inspector,
Kerbesh. This is an athletic man; he is kind of bald, has a red
beard like a fan, vividly blue slumbrous eyes, and a thin,
slightly hoarse, pleasant voice. Everybody knows that he formerly
served in the secret service division and was the terror of
crooks, thanks to his terrible physical strength and cruelty in
interrogations.

He has several shady transactions on his conscience. The whole
town knows that two years back he married a rich old woman of
seventy, and that last year he strangled her; however, he was
somehow successful in hushing up this affair. But for that matter,
the remaining four have also seen a thing or two in their
chequered life. But, just as the bretteurs of old felt no twinges
of conscience at the recollection of their victims, even so do
these people regard the dark and bloody things in their past, as
the unavoidable little unpleasantness of their professions.

They are drinking coffee with rich, boiled cream--the inspector
with Benedictine. But he, strictly speaking, is not drinking, but
merely conveying the impression that he is doing it to oblige.

"Well, what is it to be, Phoma Phornich?" asks the proprietress
searchingly. "This business isn't worth an empty eggshell, now...
Why, you have only to say a word..."

Kerbesh slowly draws in half a wine-glass of liqueur, works the
oily, strong, pungent liquid slightly with his tongue over the
roof of his mouth, swallows it, chases it down, without hurrying,
with coffee, and then passes the ring finger of his left hand over
his moustaches, to the right and left.

"Think it over for yourself, Madam Shoibes," he says, looking down
at the table, spreading out his hands and screwing up his eyes.
"Think of the risk to which I'm exposed! The girl through means of
deception was enticed into this... what-you-may-call-it... well,
in a word, into a house of ill-fame, to express it in lofty style.
Now the parents are searching for her through the police. Ve-ery
well. She gets into one place after another, from the fifth into
the tenth... Finally the trail is picked up with you, and most
important of all--think of it!--in my district! What can I do?"

"Mr. Kerbesh, but she is of age," says the proprietress.

"They are of age," confirms Isaiah Savvich. "They gave an
acknowledgment, that it was of their own will..."

Emma Edwardovna pronounces in a bass, with cool accurance:

"Honest to God, she's the same here as an own daughter."

"But that's not what I am talking about," the inspector frowns in
vexation. "Just consider my position... Why, this is duty. Lord,
there's no end of unpleasantnesses without that!"

The proprietress suddenly arises, shuffles in her slippers to the
door, and says, winking to the inspector with a sleepy,
expressionless eye of faded blue:

"Mr. Kerbesh, I would ask you to have a look at our alterations.
We want to enlarge the place a bit."

"A-ah! With pleasure..."

After ten minutes both return, without looking at each other.
Kerbesh's hand is crunching a brand-new hundred rouble note in his
pocket. The conversation about the seduced girl is not renewed.
The inspector, hastily finishing his Benedictine, complains of the
present decline in manners.

"I have a son, now, a schoolboy--Paul. He comes to me, the
scoundrel, and declares: 'Papa, the pupils swear at me, because
you are a policeman, and because you serve on Yamskaya, and
because you take bribes from brothels.' Well, tell me, for God's
sake, Madam Shoibes, if that isn't effrontery?"

"Ai, ai, ai! ... And what bribes can there be? Now with me..."

"I say to him: 'Go, you good-for-nothing, and let the principal
know, that there should be no more of this, otherwise papa will
inform on all of you to the governor.' And what do you think? He
comes to me and says: 'I am no longer a son to you--seek another
son for yourself.' What an argument! Well, I gave him enough to
last till the first of the month! Oho-ho! Now he doesn't want to
speak with me. Well, I'll show him yet!"

"Ah, you don't have to tell us," sighs Anna Markovna, letting her
lower, raspberry-coloured lip hang down and with a mist coming
over her faded eyes. "We keep our Birdie--she is in Fleisher's
high school--we purposely keep her in town, in a respectable
family. You. understand, it is awkward, after all. And all of a
sudden she brings such words and expressions from the high school
that I just simply turned all red."

"Honest to God, Annochka turned all red," confirms Isaiah Savvich.

"You'll turn red, all right!" warmly agrees the inspector. "Yes,
yes, yes, I understand you fully. But, my God, where are we going!
Where are we only going? I ask you, what are these revolutionaries
and all these various students, or... what-you-may-call-'ems? ...
trying to attain? And let them put the blame on none but
themselves. Corruption is everywhere, morality is falling, there
is no respect for parents. They ought to be shot."

"Well, now, the day before yesterday we had a case," Zociya mixes
in bustlingly. "A certain guest came, a stout man..."

"Drop it!" Emma Edwardovna, who was listening to the inspector,
piously nodding with her head bowed to one side, cuts her short in
the jargon of the brothels. "You'd better go and see about
breakfast for the young ladies."

"And not a single person can be relied upon," continues the
proprietress grumblingly. "Not a servant but what she's a stiff, a
faker. And all the girls ever think about is their lovers. Just
so's they may have their own pleasure. But about their duties they
don't even think."

There is an awkward silence. Some one knocks on the door. A thin,
feminine voice speaks on the other side of the door:

"Housekeeper, dear, take the money and be kind enough to give me
the stamps. Pete's gone."

The inspector gets up and adjusts his sabre.

"Well, it's time I was going to work. Best regards, Anna Markovna.
Best wishes, Isaiah Savvich."

"Perhaps you'll have one more little glass for a stirrup cup?" the
nearly blind Isaiah Savvich thrusts himself over the table.

"Tha-ank you. I can't. Full to the gills. Honoured, I'm sure! ..."

"Thanks for your company. Drop in some time."

"Always glad to be your guest, sir. Au revoir!"

But in the doorway he stops for a minute and says significantly:

"But still, my advice to you is--you'd better pass this girl on to
some place or other in good time. Of course, it's your affair, but
as a good friend of yours I give you warning."

He goes away. When his steps are abating on the stairs and the
front door bangs to behind him, Emma Edwardovna snorts through her
nose and says contemptuously:

"Stool-pigeon! He wants to take money both here and there..."

Little by little they all crawl apart out of the room. It is dark
in the house. It smells sweetly of the half-withered sedge. Quiet
reigns.





CHAPTER III.


Until dinner, which is served at six in the evening, the time
drags endlessly long and with intolerable monotony. And, in
general, this daily interval is the heaviest and emptiest in the
life of the house. It remotely resembles in its moods those
slothful, empty hours which are lived through during the great
holidays in scholastic institutes and other private institutions
for females, when all the friends have dispersed, when there is
much leisure and much indolence, and a radiant, agreeable tedium
reigns the whole day. In only their petticoats and white shifts,
with bare arms, sometimes barefooted, the women aimlessly ramble
from room to room, all of them unwashed, uncombed; lazily strike
the keys of the old pianoforte with the index finger, lazily lay
out cards to tell their fortune, lazily exchange curses, and with
a languishing irritation await the evening.

Liubka, after breakfast, had carried out the leavings of bread and
the cuttings of ham to Amour, but the dog had soon palled upon
her. Together with Niura she had bought some barberry bon-bons and
sunflower seeds, and now both are standing behind the fence
separating the house from the street, gnawing the seeds, the
shells of which remain on their chins and bosoms, and speculate
indifferently about those who pass on the street: about the lamp-
lighter, pouring kerosene into the street lamps, about the
policeman with the daily registry book under his arm, about the
housekeeper from somebody else's establishment, running across the
road to the general store.

Niura is a small girl, with goggle-eyes of blue; she has white,
flaxen hair and little blue veins on her temples. In her face
there is something stolid and innocent, reminiscent of a white
sugar lamb on a Paschal cake. She is lively, bustling, curious,
puts her nose into everything, agrees with everybody, is the first
to know the news, and, when she speaks, she speaks so much and so
rapidly that spray flies out of her mouth and bubbles
effervescence on the red lips, as in children.

Opposite, out of the dram-shop, a servant pops out for a minute--a
curly, besotted young fellow with a cast in his eye--and runs into
the neighbouring public house.

"Prokhor Ivanovich, oh Prokhor Ivanovich," shouts Niura, "don't
you want some?--I'll treat you to some sunflower seeds!"

"Come on in and pay us a visit," Liubka chimes in.

Niura snorts and adds through the laughter which suffocates her:

"Warm your feet for a while!"

But the front door opens; in it appears the formidable and stern
figure of the senior housekeeper.

"Pfui! [Footnote: A German exclamation of disgust or contempt,
corresponding to the English fie.--Trans.] What sort of indecency
is this!" she cries commandingly. "How many times must it be
repeated to you, that you must not jump out on the street during
the day, and also--pfui!--only in your underwear. I can't
understand how you have no conscience yourselves. Decent girls,
who respect themselves, must not demean themselves that way in
public. It seems, thank God, that you are not in an establishment
catering to soldiers, but in a respectable house. Not in Little
Yamskaya."

The girls return into the house, get into the kitchen, and for a
long time sit there on tabourets, contemplating the angry cook
Prascoviya, swinging their legs and silently gnawing the sunflower
seeds.

In the room of Little Manka, who is also called Manka the
Scandaliste and Little White Manka, a whole party has gathered.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she and another girl--Zoe, a tall
handsome girl, with arched eyebrows, with grey, somewhat bulging
eyes, with the most typical, white, kind face of the Russian
prostitute--are playing at cards, playing at "sixty-six." Little
Manka's closest friend, Jennie, is lying behind their backs on the
bed, prone on her back, reading a tattered book, The Queen's
Necklace, the work of Monsieur Dumas, and smoking. In the entire
establishment she is the only lover of reading and reads
intoxicatingly and without discrimination. But, contrary to
expectation, the forced reading of novels of adventure has not at
all made her sentimental and has not vitiated her imagination.
Above all, she likes in novels a long intrigue, cunningly thought
out and deftly disentangled; magnificent duels, before which the
viscount unties the laces of his shoes to signify that he does not
intend to retreat even a step from his position,[Footnote:
Probably a sly dig at Gautier's Captain Fracasse.-Trans.] and
after which the marquis, having spitted the count through,
apologizes for having made an opening in his splendid new
waistcoat; purses, filled to the full with gold, carelessly strewn
to the left and right by the chief heroes; the love adventures and
witticisms of Henry IV--in a word, all this spiced heroism, in
gold and lace, of the past centuries of French history. In
everyday life, on the contrary, she is sober of mind, jeering,
practical and cynically malicious. In her relation to the other
girls of the establishment she occupies the same place that in
private educational institutions is accorded to the first strong
man, the man spending a second year in the same grade, the first
beauty in the class--tyrannizing and adored. She is a tall, thin
brunette, with beautiful hazel eyes, a small proud mouth, a little
moustache on the upper lip and with a swarthy, unhealthy pink on
her cheeks.

Without letting the cigarette out of her mouth and screwing up her
eyes from the smoke, all she does is to turn the pages constantly
with a moistened finger. Her legs are bare to the knees; the
enormous balls of the feet are of the most vulgar form; below the
big toes stand out pointed, ugly, irregular tumours.

Here also, with her legs crossed, slightly bent, with some sewing,
sits Tamara--a quiet, easy-going, pretty girl, slightly reddish,
with that dark and shining tint of hair which is to be found on
the back of a fox in winter. Her real name is Glycera, or Lukeria,
as the common folk say it. But it is already an ancient usage of
the houses of ill-fame to replace the uncouth names of the
Matrenas, Agathas, Cyclitinias with sonorous, preferably exotic
names. Tamara had at one time been a nun, or, perhaps, merely a
novice in a convent, and to this day there have been preserved on
her face timidity and a pale puffiness--a modest and sly
expression, which is peculiar to young nuns. She holds herself
aloof in the house, does not chum with any one, does not initiate
any one into her past life. But in her case there must have been
many more adventures besides having been a nun: there is something
mysterious, taciturn and criminal in her unhurried speech, in the
evasive glance of her deep and dark-gold eyes from under the long,
lowered eyelashes, in her manners, her sly smiles and intonations
of a modest but wanton would-be saint. There was one occurrence
when the girls, with well-nigh reverent awe, heard that Tamara
could talk fluently in French and German. She has within her some
sort of an inner, restrained power. Notwithstanding her outward
meekness and complaisance, all in the establishment treat her with
respect and circumspection--the proprietress, and her mates, and
both housekeepers, and even the doorkeeper, that veritable sultan
of the house of ill-fame, that general terror and hero.

"I've covered it," says Zoe and turns over the trump which had
been lying under the pack, wrong side up. "I'm going with forty,
going with an ace of spades--a ten-spot, Mannechka, if you please.
I'm through. Fifty-seven, eleven, sixty-eight. How much have you?"

"Thirty," says Manka in an offended tone, pouting her lips; "oh,
it's all very well for you--you remember all the plays. Deal ...
Well, what's after that, Tamarochka?" she turns to her friend.
"You talk on--I'm listening."

Zoe shuffles the old, black, greasy cards, allows Manya to cut,
then deals, having first spat upon her fingers.

Tamara in the meanwhile is narrating to Manya in a quiet voice,
without dropping her sewing.

"We embroidered with gold, in flat embroidery--altar covers,
palls, bishops' vestments... With little grasses, with flowers,
little crosses. In winter, you'd be sitting near a casement; the
panes are small, with gratings, there isn't much light, it smells
of lamp oil, incense, cypress; you mustn't talk--the mother
superior was strict. Some one from weariness would begin droning a
pre-Lenten first verse of a hymn ... 'When I consider thy heavens
...' We sang fine, beautifully, and it was such a quiet life, and
the smell was so fine; you could see the flaky snow out the
windows--well, now, just like in a dream..."

Jennie puts the tattered novel down on her stomach, throws the
cigarette over Zoe's head, and says mockingly:

"We know all about your quiet life. You chucked the infants into
toilets. The Evil One is always snooping around your holy places."

"I call forty. I had forty-six. Finished!" Little Manka exclaims
excitedly and claps her palms. "I open with three."

Tamara, smiling at Jennie's words, answers with a scarcely
perceptible smile, which barely distends her lips, but makes
little, sly, ambiguous depressions at their corners, altogether as
with Monna Lisa in the portrait by Leonardo da Vinci.

"Lay folk say a lot of things about nuns ... Well, even if there
had been sin once in a while ..."

"If you don't sin--you don't repent," Zoe puts in seriously, and
wets her finger in her mouth.

"You sit and sew, the gold eddies before your eyes, while from
standing in the morning at prayer your back just aches, and your
legs ache. And at evening there is service again. You knock at the
door of the mother superior's cell: 'Through prayers of Thy
saints, oh Lord, our Father, have mercy upon us.' And the mother
superior would answer from the cell, in a little bass-like 'A-men.'"

Jennie looks at her intently for some time, shakes her head and
says with great significance:

"You're a queer girl, Tamara. Here I'm looking at you and
wondering. Well, now, I can understand how these fools, on the
manner of Sonka, play at love. That's what they're fools for. But
you, it seems, have been roasted on all sorts of embers, have been
washed in all sorts of lye, and yet you allow yourself foolishness
of that sort. What are you embroidering that shirt for?"

Tamara, without haste, with a pin refastens the fabric more
conveniently on her knee, smooths the seam down with the thimble,
and speaks, without raising the narrowed eyes, her head bent just
a trifle to one side:

"One's got to be doing something. It's wearisome just so. I don't
play at cards, and I don't like them."

Jennie continues to shake her head.

"No, you're a queer girl, really you are. You always have more
from the guests than all of us get. You fool, instead of saving
money, what do you spend it on? You buy perfumes at seven roubles
the bottle. Who needs it? And now you have bought fifteen roubles'
worth of silk. Isn't this for your Senka, now?"

"Of course, for Sennechka."

"What a treasure you've found, to be sure! A miserable thief. He
rides up to this establishment like some general. How is it he
doesn't beat you yet? The thieves--they like that. And he plucks
you, have no fear?"

"More than I want to, I won't give," meekly answers Tamara and
bites the thread in two.

"Now that is just what I wonder at. With your mind, your beauty, I
would put such rings-around-a-rosie about a guest like that, that
he'd take me and set me up. I'd have horses of my own, and
diamonds."

"Everyone to his tastes, Jennechka. You too, now, are a very
pretty and darling girl, and your character is so independent and
brave, and yet you and I have gotten stuck in Anna Markovna's."

Jennie flares up and answers with unsimulated bitterness:

"Yes! Why not! All things come your way! ...You have all the very
best guests. You do what you want with them, but with me it's
always either old men or suckling babies. I have no luck. The ones
are snotty, the others have yellow around the mouth. More than
anything else, now, I dislike the little boys. He comes, the
little varmint; he's cowardly, he hurries, he trembles, but having
done the business, he doesn't know what to do with his eyes for
shame. He's all squirming from disgust. I just feel like giving
him one in the snout. Before giving you the rouble, he holds it in
his pocket in his fist, and that rouble's all hot, even sweaty.
The milksop! His mother gives him a ten kopeck piece for a French
roll with sausage, but he's economized out of that for a wench. I
had one little cadet in the last few days. So just on purpose, to
spite him, I say: 'Here, my dearie, here's a little caramel for
you on your way; when you're going back to your corps, you'll suck
on it.' So at first he got offended, but afterwards took it. Later
I looked from the stoop, on purpose; just as soon as he walked
out, he looked around, and right away into his mouth with the
caramel. The little swine!"

"But with old men it's still worse," says Little Manka in a tender
voice, and slyly looks at Zoe. "What do you think, Zoinka?"

Zoe, who had already finished playing, and was just about to yawn,
now cannot in any way give rein to her yawns. She does not know
whether she wants to be angry or to laugh. She has a steady
visitor, some little old man in a high station, with perverted
erotic habits. The entire establishment makes fun of his visits to
her.

Zoe at last succeeds in yawning.

"To the devil's dam with all of you," she says, with her voice
hoarse after the yawn; "may he be damned, the old anathema!"

"But still, the worst of all," Jennie continues to discourse,
"worse than your director, Zoinka, worse than my cadet, the worst
of all--are your lovers. What can there be joyous in this: he
comes drunk, poses, makes sport of you, wants to pretend there's
something in him--only nothing comes of it all. Wha-at a lad-die,
to be sure! The scummiest of the scum, dirty, beaten-up, stinking,
his whole body in scars, there's only one glory about him: the
silk shirt which Tamarka will embroider for him. He curses one's
mother, the son of a bitch, always aching for a fight. Ugh! No!"
she suddenly exclaimed in a merry provoking voice, "The one I love
truly and surely, for ever and ever, is my Mannechka, Manka the
white, little Manka, my Manka-Scandalistochka."

And unexpectedly, having embraced Manya by the shoulders and
bosom, she drew her toward herself, threw her down on the bed, and
began to kiss deeply and vigorously her hair, eyes, lips. Manka
with difficulty tore herself away from her, with dishevelled,
bright, fine, downy hair, all rosy from the resistance, and with
eyes downcast and moist from shame and laughter.

"Leave off, Jennechka, leave off. Well, now, what are you doing?
Let me go!"

Little Manya is the meekest and quietest girl in the entire
establishment. She is kind, yielding, can never refuse anybody's
request, and involuntarily everybody treats her with great
gentleness. She blushes over every trifle, and at such time
becomes especially attractive, as only very tender blondes with a
sensitive skin can be attractive. But it is sufficient for her to
drink three or four glasses of Liqueur Benedictine, of which she
is very fond, for her to become unrecognizable and to create
brawls, such, that there is always required the intervention of
the housekeepers, the porter, at times even the police. It is
nothing for her to hit a guest in the face or to throw in his face
a glass filled with wine, to overturn the lamp, to curse out the
proprietress, Jennie treats her with some strange, tender
patronage and rough adoration.

"Ladies, to dinner! To dinner, ladies!" calls Zociya the
housekeeper, running along the corridor. On the run she opens the
door into Manya's room and drops hurriedly:

"To dinner, to dinner, ladies!"

They go again to the kitchen, all still in their underwear, all
unwashed, in slippers and barefoot. A tasty vegetable soup of pork
rinds and tomatoes, cutlets, and pastry-cream rolls are served.
But no one has any appetite, thanks to the sedentary life and
irregular sleep, and also because the majority of the girls, just
like school-girls on a holiday, had already managed during the day
to send to the store for halvah, nuts, rakkat loukoum (Turkish
Delight), dill-pickles and molasses candy, and had through this
spoiled their appetites. Only Nina alone--a small, pug-nosed,
snuffling country girl, seduced only two months ago by a
travelling salesman, and (also by him) sold into a brothel--eats
for four. The inordinate, provident appetite of a woman of the
common people has not yet disappeared in her.

Jennie, who has only picked fastidiously at her cutlet and eaten
half her cream roll, speaks to her in a tone of hypocritical
solicitude:

"Really, Pheclusha, you might just as well eat my cutlet, too.
Eat, my dear, eat; don't be bashful--you ought to be gaining in
health. But do you know what I'll tell you, ladies?" she turns to
her mates, "Why, our Pheclusha has a tape-worm, and when a person
has a tape-worm, he always eats for two: half for himself, half
for the worm."

Nina sniffs angrily and answers in a bass which comes as a
surprise from one of her stature, and through her nose:

"There are no tape-worms in me. It's you that has the tape-worms,
that's why you are so skinny."

And she imperturbably continues to eat, and after dinner feels
herself sleepy, like a boa constrictor, eructs loudly, drinks
water, hiccups, and, by stealth, if no one sees her, makes the
sign of the cross over her mouth, through an old habit.

But already the ringing voice of Zociya can. be heard through the
corridors and rooms:

"Get dressed, ladies, get dressed. There's no use in sitting
around...To work..."

After a few minutes in all the rooms of the establishment there
are smells of singed hair, boric-thymol soap, cheap eau-de-
cologne. The girls are dressing for the evening.





CHAPTER IV.


The late twilight came on, and after it the warm, dark night, but
for long, until very midnight, did the deep crimson glow of the
sky still smoulder. Simeon, the porter of the establishment, has
lit all the lamps along the walls of the drawing room, and the
lustre, as well as the red lantern over the stoop. Simeon was a
spare, stocky, taciturn and harsh man, with straight, broad
shoulders, dark-haired, pock-marked, with little bald spots on his
eye-brows and moustaches from small-pox, and with black, dull,
insolent eyes. By day he was free and slept, while at night he sat
without absenting himself in the front hall under the reflector,
in order to help the guests with their coats and to be ready in
case of any disorder.

The pianist came--a tall, elegant young man, with white eyebrows
and eyelashes, and a cataract in his right eye. The while there
were no guests, he and Isaiah Savvich quietly rehearsed Pas
d'Espagne, at that time coming into fashion. For every dance
ordered by the guests, they received thirty kopecks for an easy
dance, and a half rouble for a quadrille. But one-half of this
price was taken out by the proprietress, Anna Markovna; the other,
however, the musicians divided evenly. In this manner the pianist
received only a quarter of the general earnings, which, of course,
was unjust, since Isaiah Savvich played as one self-taught and was
distinguished for having no more ear for music than a piece of
wood. The pianist was constantly compelled to drag him on to new
tunes, to correct and cover his mistakes with loud chords. The
girls said of their pianist to the guests, with a certain pride,
that he had been in the conservatory and always ranked as the
first pupil, but since he is a Jew, and in addition to that his
eyes had begun to trouble him, he had not succeeded in completing
the course. They all treated him carefully and considerately, with
some sort of solicitous, somewhat mawkish, commiseration, which
chimes so well with the inner, backstage customs of houses of ill-
fame, where underneath the outer coarseness and the flaunting of
obscene words dwells the same sweetish, hysterical sentimentality
as in female boarding schools, and, so they say, in penal
institutions.

In the house of Anna Markovna everybody was already dressed and
ready for the reception of the guests, and languishing from
inaction and expectation. Despite the fact that the majority of
the women experienced toward men--with the exception of their
lovers--a complete, even somewhat squeamish, indifference, before
every evening dim hopes came to life and stirred within their
souls; it was unknown who would choose them, whether something
unusual, funny and alluring might not happen, whether a guest
would not astonish with his generosity, whether there would not be
some miracle which would overturn the whole life...In these
presentiments and hopes was something akin to those emotions which
the accustomed gamester experiences when counting his ready money
before starting out for his club. Besides that, despite their
asexuality, they still had not lost the chiefest instinctive
aspiration of women--to please.

And, in truth, altogether curious personages came into the house
at times and ludicrous, motley events arose. The police would
appear suddenly together with disguised detectives and arrest some
seemingly respectable, irreproachable gentlemen and lead them off,
pushing them along with blows in the neck. At times brawls would
spring up between the drunken, trouble-making company and the
porters of all the establishments, who had gathered on the run for
the relief of a fellow porter--a brawl, during which the window-
panes and the decks of grand-pianos were broken, when the legs of
the plush chairs were wrenched out for weapons, blood ran over the
parquet floor of the drawing room and the steps of the stairs, and
people with pierced sides and broken heads fell down into the dirt
near the street entrance, to the feral, avid delight of Jennka,
who, with burning eyes, with happy laughter, went into the
thickest of the melee, slapped herself on the hips, swore and
sicked them on, while her mates were squealing from fear and
hiding under the beds.

There were occurrences when there would arrive, with a pack of
parasites, some member of a workingmen's association or a cashier,
long since far gone in an embezzlement of many thousands through
gambling at cards and hideous orgies, and now, in a drunken,
senseless delirium, tossing the last money after the other, before
suicide or the prisoner's box. Then the doors and windows of the
house would be tightly closed, and for two days and nights at a
stretch a Russian orgy would go on--nightmarish, tedious, savage,
with screams and tears, with revilement over the body of woman;
paradisaical nights were gotten up, during which naked, drunken,
bow-legged, hairy, pot-bellied men, and women with flabby, yellow,
pendulous thin bodies hideously grimaced to the music; they drank
and guzzled like swine, on the beds and on the floor, amidst the
stifling atmosphere, permeated with spirits, befouled with human
respiration and the exhalations of unclean skins.

Occasionally, there would appear a circus athlete, creating in the
low-ceiled quarters a strangely cumbersome impression, somewhat
like that of a horse led into a room; a Chinaman in a blue blouse,
white stockings, and with a queue; a negro from a cabaret, in a
tuxedo coat and checked pantaloons, with a flower in his button-
hole, and with starched linen, which, to the amazement of the
girls, not only did not soil from the black skin, but appeared
still more dazzlingly white.

These rare people fomented the satiated imagination of the
prostitutes, excited their exhausted sensuality and professional
curiosity, and all of them, almost enamoured, would walk in their
steps, jealous and bickering with one another.

There was one incident when Simeon had let into the room an
elderly man, dressed like a bourgeois. There was nothing
exceptional about him; he had a stern, thin face, with bony, evil-
looking cheek-bones, protruding like tumours, a low forehead, a
beard like a wedge, bushy eyebrows, one eye perceptibly higher
than the other. Having entered, he raised his fingers, folded for
the sign of the cross, to his forehead, but having searched the
corners with his eyes and finding no image, he did not in the
least grow confused, put down his hand, and at once with a
business-like air walked up to the fattest girl in the
establishment--Kitty.

"Let's go!" he commanded curtly, and with determination nodded his
head in the direction of the door.

During the entire period of her absence the omniscious Simeon,
with a mysterious, and even somewhat proud air, managed to inform
Niura, at that time his mistress, while she, in a whisper, with
horror in her rounded eyes, told her mates, in secret, that the
name of the bourgeois was Dyadchenko, and that last fall he had
volunteered, owing to the absence of the hangman, to carry out the
execution of eleven rioters, and with his own hands had hung them
in two mornings. And--monstrous as it may be--at that hour there
was not in the establishment a single girl who did not feel envy
toward the fat Kitty, and did not experience a painful, keen,
vertiginous curiosity. When Dyadchenko was going away half an hour
later--with his sedate and stern air, all the women speechlessly,
with their mouths gaping, escorted him. to the street door and
afterwards watched him from the windows as he walked along the
street. Then they rushed into the room of the dressing Kitty and
overwhelmed her with interrogations. They looked with a new
feeling, almost with astonishment, at her bare, red, thick arms,
at the bed, still crumpled, at the old, greasy, paper rouble,
which Kitty showed them, having taken it out of her stocking.
Kitty could tell them nothing. "A man like any man, like all men,"
she said with a calm incomprehension; but when she found out who
her visitor had been, she suddenly burst into tears, without
herself knowing why.

This man, the outcast of outcasts, fallen as low as the fancy of
man can picture, this voluntary headsman, had treated her without
rudeness, but with such absence of even a hint at endearment, with
such disdain and wooden indifference, as no human being is
treated; not even a dog or a horse, and not even an umbrella,
overcoat or hat, but like some dirty, unclean object, for which a
momentary, unavoidable need arises, but which, at the passing of
its needfulness, becomes foreign, useless, and disgusting. The
entire horror of this thought the fat Kate could not embrace with
her brain of a fattened turkey hen, and because of that cried--as
it seemed even to her--without cause and reason.

There were also other happenings, which stirred up the turbid,
foul life of these poor, sick, silly, unfortunate women. There
were cases of savage, unbridled jealousy with pistol shots and
poisoning; occasionally, very rarely, a tender, flaming and pure
love would blossom out upon this dung; occasionally the women even
abandoned an establishment with the help of the loved man, but
almost always came back. Two or three times it happened that a
woman from a brothel would suddenly prove pregnant--and this
always seemed, on the face of it, laughable and disgraceful, but
touching in the profundity of the event.

And no matter what may have happened, every evening brought with
it such an irritating, strained, spicy expectation of adventures
that every other life, after that in a house of ill-fame, would
have seemed flat and humdrum to these lazy women of no will power.





CHAPTER V.


The windows are opened wide to the fragrant darkness of the
evening, and the tulle curtains stir faintly back and forth from
the imperceptible movement of the air. It smells of dewy grass
from the consumptive little garden in front of the house, and just
the least wee bit of lilac and the withering birch leaves of the
little trees placed near the entrance because of the Trinity.
Liuba, in a blue velvet blouse with low cut bosom, and Niura,
dressed as a "baby," in a pink, wide sacque to the knees, with her
bright hair loose and with little curls on her forehead, are lying
embraced on the window-sill, and are singing in a low voice a song
about the hospital, which song is the rage of the day and
exceedingly well known among prostitutes. Niura, through her nose,
leads in a high voice.

Liuba seconds her with a stifled alto:

    "Monday now is come again,
    They're supposed to get me out;
    Doctor Krasov won't let me out ..."

In all the houses the windows are brightly lit, while hanging
lanterns are burning before the entrances. To both girls the
interior in the establishment of Sophia Vasilievna, which is
directly opposite, is distinctly visible--the shining yellow
parquet, draperies of a dark cherry colour on the doors, caught up
with cords, the end of a black grand-piano, a pier glass in a gilt
frame, and the figures of women in gorgeous dresses, now flashing
at the windows, now disappearing, and their reflections in the
mirrors. The carved stoop of Treppel, to the right, is brightly
illuminated by a bluish electric light in a big frosted globe.

The evening is calm and warm. Somewhere far, far away, beyond the
line of the railroads, beyond some black roofs and the thin black
trunks of trees, down low over the dark earth in which the eye
does not see but rather senses the mighty green tone of spring,
reddens with a scarlet gold the narrow, long streak of the sunset
glow, which has pierced the dove-coloured mist. And in this
indistinct, distant light, in the caressing air, in the scents of
the oncoming night, was some secret, sweet, conscious
mournfulness, which usually is so gentle in the evenings between
spring and summer. The indistinct noise of the city floated in,
the dolorous, snuffling air of an accordeon, the mooing of cows
could be heard; somebody's soles were scraping dryly and a
ferruled cane rapped resoundingly on the flags of the pavement;
lazily and irregularly the wheels of a cabman's victoria, rolling
at a pace through Yama, would rumble by, and all these sounds
mingled with a beauty and softness in the pensive drowsiness of
the evening. And the whistles of the locomotives on the line of
the railroad, which was marked out in the darkness with green and
red lights, sounded with a quiet, singing caution.

    "Now the nurse is co-oming in,
    Bringing sugar and a roll,
    Bringing sugar and a roll,
    Deals them equally to all."

"Prokhor Ivanich!" Niura suddenly calls after the curly waiter
from the dram-shop, who, a light black silhouette, is running
across the road. "Oh, Prokhor Ivanich!"

"Oh, bother you!" the other snarls hoarsely. "What now?"

"A friend of yours sent you his regards. I saw him today."

"What sort of friend?"

"Such a little good-looker! An attractive little brunet ...No, but
you'd better ask--where did I see him?"

"Well, where?" Prokhor Ivanovich comes to a stop for a minute.

"And here's where: nailed over there, on the fifth shelf with old
hats, where we keep all dead cats."

"Scat! You darn fool!"

Niura laughs shrilly over all Yama, and throws herself down on the
sill, kicking her legs in high black stockings. Afterward, having
ceased laughing, she all of a sudden makes round astonished eyes
and says in a whisper:

"But do you know, girlie--why, he cut a woman's throat the year
before last--that same Prokhor. Honest to God!"

"Is that so? Did she die?"

"No, she didn't. She got by," says Niura, as though with regret.
"But just the same she lay for two months in the Alexandrovskaya
Hospital. The doctors said, that if it were only this teen-weeny
bit higher--then it would have been all over. Bye-bye!"

"Well, what did he do that to her for?"

"How should I know? Maybe she hid money from him or wasn't true to
him. He was her lover--her pimp."

"Well, and what did he get for it?"

"Why, nothing. There was no evidence of any kind. There had been a
free-for-all mix-up. About a hundred people were fighting. She
also told the police that she had no suspicions of any sort. But
Prokhor himself boasted afterwards: 'I,' says he, 'didn't do for
Dunka that time, but I'll finish her off another time. She,' says
he, 'won't get by my hands. I'm going to give her the works.'"

A shiver runs all the way down Liuba's back.

"They're desperate fellows, these pimps!" she pronounces quietly,
with horror in her voice.

"Something terrible! I, you know, played at love with our Simeon
for a whole year. Such a Herod, the skunk! I didn't have a whole
spot on me. I always went about in black and blue marks. And it
wasn't for any reason at all, but just simply so--he'd go in the
morning into a room with me, lock himself in, and start in to
torture me. He'd wrench my arms, pinch my breasts, grab my throat
and begin to strangle me. Or else he'd be kissing, kissing, and
then he'd bite the lips so that the blood would just spurt out ...
I'd start crying--but that's all he was looking for. Then he'd
just pounce an me like a beast--simply shivering all over. And
he'd take all my money away--well, now, to the very last little
copper. There wasn't anything to buy ten cigarettes with. He's
stingy, this here Simeon, that's what, always into the bank-book
with it, always putting it away into the bank-book... Says when he
gets a thousand roubles together--he'll go into a monastery."

"Go on!"

"Honest to God. You look into his little room: the twenty-four
hours round, day and night, the little holy lamp burns before the
images. He's very strong for God ... Only I think that he's that
way because there's heavy sins upon him. He's a murderer."

"What are you saying?"

"Oh, let's drop talking about him, Liubochka. Well, let's go on
further:

"I'll go to the drug store, buy me some poison, And I will poison
then meself,"

Niura starts off in a very high, thin voice.

Jennie walks back and forth in the room, with arms akimbo, swaying
as she walks, and looking at herself in all the mirrors. She has
on a short orange satin dress, with straight deep pleats in the
skirt, which vacillates evenly to the left and right from the
movement of her hips. Little Manka, a passionate lover of card
games, ready to play from morning to morning, without stopping, is
playing away at "sixty-six" with Pasha, during which both women,
for convenience in dealing, have left an empty chair between them,
while they gather their tricks into their skirts, spread out
between their knees. Manka has on a brown, very modest dress, with
black apron and pleated black bib; this dress is very becoming to
her dainty, fair little head and small stature; it makes her
younger and gives her the appearance of a high-school
undergraduate.

Her partner Pasha is a very queer and unhappy girl. She should
have been, long ago, not in a house of ill-fame, but in a
psychiatric ward, because of an excruciating nervous malady, which
compels her to give herself up, frenziedly, with an unwholesome
avidity, to any man whatsoever who may choose her, even the most
repulsive. Her mates make sport of her and despise her somewhat
for this vice, just as though for some treason to their corporate
enmity toward men. Niura, with very great versimilitude, mimics
her sighs, groans, outcries and passionate words, from which she
can never refrain in the moments of ecstasy and which are to be
heard in the neighbouring rooms through two or three partitions.
There is a rumour afloat about Pasha, that she got into a brothel
not at all through necessity or temptation or deception, but had
gone into it her own self, voluntarily, following her horrible,
insatiable instinct. But the proprietress of the house and both
the housekeepers indulge Pasha in every way and encourage her
insane weakness, because, thanks to it, Pasha is in constant
demand and earns four, five times as much as any one of the
remaining girls--earns so much, that on busy gala days she is not
brought out to the more drab guests at all, or else refused them
under the pretext of Pasha's illness, because the steady, paying
guests are offended if they are told that the girl they know is
busy with another. And of such steady guests Pasha has a
multitude; many are with perfect sincerity, even though bestially,
in love with her, and even not so long ago two, almost at the same
time, offered to set her up: a Georgian--a clerk in a store of
Cakhetine wines, and some railroad agent, a very proud and very
poor nobleman, with shirt cuffs the colour of a cabbage rose, and
with an eye which had been replaced by a black circle on an
elastic. Pasha, passive in everything save her impersonal
sensuality, would go with anybody who might call her, but the
administration of the house vigilantly guards its interests in
her. A near insanity already flits over her lovely face, in her
half-closed eyes, always smiling with some heady, blissful, meek,
bashful and unseemly smile, in her languorous, softened, moist
lips, which she is constantly licking; in her short, quiet laugh--
the laugh of an idiot. Yet at the same time she--this veritable
victim of the social temperament--in everyday life is very good-
natured, yielding, entirely uncovetous and is very much ashamed of
her inordinate passion. Toward her mates she is tender, likes very
much to kiss and embrace them and sleep in the same bed with them,
but still everybody has a little aversion for her, it would seem.

"Mannechka, sweetie, dearie," says Pasha lightly touching Manya's
hand with emotion, "tell my fortune, my precious little child."

"We-ell," Manya pouts her lips just like a child, "let's play a
little more."

"Mannechka, my little beauty, you little good-looker, my precious,
my own, my dear..."

Manya gives in and lays out the pack on her knees. A suit of
hearts comes out, a small monetary interest and a meeting in the
suit of spades with a large company in the king of clubs.

Pasha claps her hands joyously:

"Ah, it's my Levanchik! Well, yes, he promised to come to-day. Of
course, it's Levanchik."

"That's your Georgian!"

"Yes, yes, my little Georgian. Oh, how nice he is. I'd just love
never to let him go away from me. Do you know what he told me the
last time? 'If you'll go on living in a sporting house, then I'll
make both you dead, and make me dead.' And he flashed his eyes at
me so!"

Jennie, who had stopped near, listens to her words and asks
haughtily:

"Who was it said that?"

"Why, my little Georgian, Levan. 'Both for you death and for me
death.'"

"Fool! He isn't any little Georgian at all, but simply a common
Armenian. You're a crazy fool."

"Oh no, he isn't--he's a Georgian. And it is quite strange on your
part..."

"I'm telling you--a common Armenian. I can tell better. Fool!"

"What are you cursing for, Jennie? I didn't start cursing you
first off, did I?"

"You just try and be the first to start cursing! Fool! Isn't it
all the same to you what he is? Are you in love with him, or
what?"

"Well, I am in love with him!"

"Well, and you're a fool. And the one with the badge in his cap,
the lame one--are you in love with him too?"

"Well, what of it? I respect him very much. He is very
respectable."

"And with Nicky the Book-keeper? And with the contractor? And with
Antoshka-Kartoshka? [Footnote: Tony the Potato.-Trans.] And with
the fat actor? Oo-ooh, you shameless creature!" Jennie suddenly
cries out. "I can't look at you without disgust. You're a bitch!
In your place, if I was such a miserable thing, I'd rather lay
hands on myself, strangle myself with a cord from my corset. You
vermin!"

Pasha silently lowers her eyelashes over her tear-filled eyes.
Manya tries to defend her.

"Really, what are you carrying on like that for, Jennechka? What
are you down on her like that for..."

"Eh, all of you are fine!" Jennie sharply cuts her short. "No
self-respect of any sort! Some scum comes along, buys you like a
piece of meat, hires you like a cabby, at a fixed rate, for love
for an hour, but you go all to pieces: 'Ah, my little lover! Ah,
what unearthly passion!' Ugh!" she spat in disgust.

She wrathfully turns her back upon them and continues to promenade
on a diagonal through the room, swinging her hips and blinking at
herself in every mirror.

During this time Isaac Davidovich, the piano player, is still
struggling with the refractory violinist.

"Not that way, not that way, Isaiah Savvich. You throw the fiddle
away for one little minute. Listen a little to me. Here is the
tune."

He plays with one finger and hums in that horrible goatish voice
that all musical directors--for which calling he had been at one
time preparing--possess.

"Ess-tam, ess-tam, ess-tiam-tiam. Well, now, repeat after me the
first part, first time off..... Well..... ein, zwei..."

Their rehearsal is being attentively watched by the grey-eyed,
round-faced, arch-browed Zoe, mercilessly bedaubed with cheap
rouges and whiteners, leaning with her elbows on the pianoforte,
and the slight Vera, with drink-ravaged face, in the costume of a
jockey--in a round little cap with straight brim, in a little silk
jacket, striped blue and white, in tightly stretched trunks and in
little patent leather boots with yellow facings. And really, Vera
does resemble a jockey, with her narrow face, in which the
exceedingly sparkling blue eyes, under a smart bob coming down on
the forehead, are set too near the humped, nervous, very handsome
nose. When, at last, after long efforts the musicians agree, the
somewhat small Verka walks up to the large Zoe, in that mincing,
tethered walk, the hind part sticking out, and elbows spread as
though for flight, with which only women in male costume can walk,
and makes a comical masculine bow to her, spreading her arms wide
and lowering them. And, with great enjoyment, they begin careering
over the room.

The nimble Niura, always the first to announce all the news,
suddenly jumps down from the window sill, and calls out,
spluttering from the excitement and hurry:

"A swell carriage...has driven up...to Treppel ...with
electricity... Oi, goils...may I die on the spot...there's
electricity on the shafts."

All the girls, save the proud Jennie, thrust themselves out of the
windows. A driver with a fine carriage is indeed standing near the
Treppel entrance. His brand-new, dashing victoria glistens with
new lacquer; at the ends of the shafts two tiny electric lights
burn with a yellow light; the tall white horse, with a bare pink
spot on the septum of its nose, shakes its handsome head, shifts
its feet on the same spot, and pricks up its thin ears; the
bearded, stout driver himself sits on the coach-box like a carven
image, his arms stretched out straight along his knees.

"Oh, for a ride!" squeals Niura. "Oh, uncle! Oh you swell
coachman!" she cries out, hanging over the window sill. "Give a
poor little girlie a ride... Give us a ride for love."

But the swell coachman laughs, makes a scarcely noticeable
movement with his fingers, and immediately the white horse, as
though it had been waiting just for that, starts from its place at
a goodly trot, handsomely turns around and with measured speed
floats away into the darkness together with the victoria and the
broad back of the coachman.

"Pfui! What indecency!" the indignant voice of Emma Edwardovna
sounds in the room. "Well, where did you see that respectable
girls should allow themselves to climb out of the windows and
holler all over the street. O, scandal! And it's all Niura, and
it's always this horrible Niura!"

She is majestic in her black dress, with her yellow flabby face,
with the dark pouches under her eyes, with the three pendulous,
quivering chins. The girls, like boarding school misses, staidly
seat themselves on the chairs along the walls, except Jennie, who
continues to contemplate herself in all the mirrors. Two more
cabbies drive up opposite, to the house of Sophia Vasilievna. Yama
is beginning to liven up. At last one more victoria rattles along
the paved road and its noise is cut short abruptly at the entrance
to Anna Markovna's.

The porter Simeon helps someone take off his things in the front
hall. Jennie looks in there, holding on with both hands to the
door jambs, but immediately turns back, and as she walks shrugs
her shoulders and shakes her head negatively.

"Don't know him, someone who's an entire stranger," she says in a
low voice. "He has never been in our place. Some daddy or other,
fat, in gold eye-glasses and a uniform."

Emma Edwardovna commands in a voice which sounds like a summoning
cavalry trumpet:

"Ladies, into the drawing room! Into the drawing room, ladies!"

One after the other, with haughty gaits, into the drawing room
enter: Tamara, with bare white arms and bared neck, wound with a
string of artificial pearls; fat Kitty with her fleshy,
quadrangular face and low forehead--she, too, is in decollete, but
her skin is red and in goose-pimples; Nina, the very newest one,
pug-nosed and clumsy, in a dress the colour of a green parrot;
another Manka--Big Manka, or Manka the Crocodile, as they call
her, and--the last--Sonka the Rudder, a Jewess, with an ugly dark
face and an extraordinarily large nose, precisely for which she
has received her nickname, but with such magnificent large eyes,
at the same time meek and sad, burning and humid, as, among the
women of all the terrestrial globe, are to be found only among the
Jewesses.





CHAPTER VI.


The elderly guest in the uniform of the Department of Charity
walked in with slow, undecided steps, at each step bending his
body a little forward and rubbing his palms with a circular
motion, as though washing them. Since all the women were pompously
silent, as though not noticing him, he traversed the drawing room
and let himself down on a chair alongside of Liuba, who, in
accordance with etiquette, only gathered up her skirt a little,
preserving the abstracted and independent air of a girl from a
respectable house.

"How do you do, miss?" he said.

"How do you do?" answered Liuba abruptly.

"How are you getting along?"

"Thanks--thank you. Treat me to a smoke."

"Pardon me--I don't smoke."

"So that's how. A man--and he doesn't smoke, just like that. Well,
then, treat me to some Lafitte with lemonade. I am terribly fond
of Lafitte with lemonade."

He let that pass in silence.

"Ooh, what a stingy daddy! Where do you work, now? Are you one of
the government clerks?"

"No, I'm a teacher. I teach the German language."

"But I have seen you somewhere, daddy. Your physiognomy is
familiar to me. Where have I met you before?"

"Well, now, I don't know, really. Unless it was on the street."

"It might have been on the street, likely as not... You ought to
treat me to an orange, at least. May I ask for an orange?"

He again grew quiet, looking about him. His face began to glisten
and the pimples on his forehead became red. He was mentally
appraising all the women, choosing a likely one for himself, and
was at the same time embarrassed by his silence. There was nothing
at all to talk about; besides that the indifferent importunity of
Liuba irritated him. Fat Katie pleased him with her large, bovine
body, but she must be--he decided in his mind--very frigid in
love, like all stout women, and in addition to that not handsome
of face. Vera also excited him, with her appearance of a little
boy, and her firm thighs, closely enveloped by the white tights;
and Little White Manya, looking so like an innocent school-girl;
and Jennie with her energetic, swarthy, handsome face. For one
minute he was all ready to stop at Jennie, but only started in his
chair and did not venture--by her easy, inaccessible and negligent
air, and because she in all sincerity did not pay him the least
attention, he surmised that she was the most spoilt of all the
girls in the establishment, accustomed to having the visitors
spend more money on her than on the others. But the pedagogue was
a calculating man, burthened with a large family and an exhausted
wife, destroyed by his masculine demands and suffering from a
multiplicity of female ills. Teaching in a female high school and
in an institute, he lived constantly in a sort of secret sensual
delirium, and only his German training, stinginess and cowardice
helped him to hold his constantly aroused desires in check. But
two or three times a year, with incredible privations, he would
cut five or ten roubles out of his beggarly budget, denying
himself in his beloved evening mug of beer and contriving to save
on the street cars, which necessitated his making enormous
distances on foot through the town. This money he set aside for
women and spent it slowly, with gusto, trying to prolong and
cheapen down the enjoyment as much as possible. And for his money
he wanted a very great deal, almost the impossible; his German
sentimental soul dimly thirsted after innocence, timidity, poesy,
in the flaxen image of Gretchen; but as a man he dreamt, desired,
and demanded that his caresses should bring a woman into rapture
and palpitation and into a sweet exhaustion.

However, all the men strove for the very same thing--even the most
wretched, monstrous, misshapen and impotent of them--and ancient
experience had long ago taught the women to imitate with voice and
movements the most flaming passion, retaining in the most
tempestuous minutes the fullest sang froid.

"You might at least order the musicians to play a polka. Let the
girls dance a little," asked Liuba grumblingly.

That suited him. Under cover of the music, amid the jostling of
the dances, it was far more convenient to get up courage, arise,
and lead one of the girls out of the drawing room, than to do it
amid the general silence and the finical immobility.

"And how much does that cost?" he asked cautiously.

"A quadrille is half a rouble; but ordinary dances are thirty
kopecks. Is it all right then?"

"Well, of course...if you please...I don't begrudge it," he
agreed, pretending to be generous...

"Whom do you speak to?"

"Why, over there--to the musicians."

"Why not? ... I'll do it with pleasure...Mister musician,
something in the light dances, if you please," he said, laying
down his silver on the pianoforte.

"What will you order?" asked Isaiah Savvich, putting the money
away in his pocket. "Waltz, polka, polka-mazourka?"

"Well...Something sort of..."

"A waltz, a waltz!" Vera, a great lover of dancing, shouted from
her place.

"No, a polka! ... A waltz! ... A vengerka! ... A waltz!" demanded
others.

"Let them play a polka," decided Liuba in a capricious tone.
"Isaiah Savvich, play a little polka, please. This is my husband,
and he is ordering fox me," she added, embracing the pedagogue by
the neck. "Isn't that true, daddy?"

But he freed himself from under her arm, drawing his head in like
a turtle, and she without the least offence went to dance with
Niura. Three other couples were also whirling about. In the dances
all the girls tried to hold the waist as straight as possible, and
the head as immobile as possible, with a complete unconcern in
their faces, which constituted one of the conditions of the good
taste of the establishment. Under cover of the slight noise the
teacher walked up to Little Manka.

"Let's go?" he said, offering her his bent arm.

"Let's go," answered she, laughing.

She brought him into her room, gotten up with all the
coquettishness of a bedroom in a brothel of the medium sort, with
a bureau, covered with a knit scarf, and upon it a mirror, a
bouquet of paper flowers, a few empty bonbonierres, a powder box,
a faded photograph of a young man with white eyebrows and
eyelashes and a haughtily astonished face, as well as several
visiting cards. Above the bed, which is covered with a pink pique
blanket, along the wall, is nailed up a rug with a representation
of a Turkish sultan luxuriating in his harem, a narghili in his
mouth; on the walls, several more photographs of dashing men of
the waiter and actor type; a pink lantern hangs down from the
ceiling by chains; there are also a round table under a carpet
cover, three vienna chairs, and an enameled bowl with a pitcher of
the same sort in the corner on a tabouret, behind the bed.

"Darling, treat me to Lafitte with lemonade," in accordance with
established usage asked Little Manka, unbuttoning her corsage.

"Afterwards," austerely answered the pedagogue. "It will all
depend upon yourself. And then--what sort of Lafitte can you have
here? Some muddy brew or other?"

"We have good Lafitte," contradicted the girl touchily. "Two
roubles a bottle. But if you are so stingy, then buy me beer at
least. All right?"

"Well, beer is all right..."

"And for me lemonade and oranges. Yes?"

"A bottle of lemonade, yes; but oranges, no. Later, maybe, I will
treat you to champagne even. It will all depend on you. If you'll
exert yourself."

"Then, daddy, I'll ask for four bottles of beer and two bottles of
lemonade? Yes? And for me just a little cake of chocolate. All
right? Yes?"

"Two bottles of beer, a bottle of lemonade, and nothing more. I
don't like when I'm bargained with. If need be, I'll order
myself."

"And may I invite a friend of mine?"

"No, let it be without any friends, if you please."

Manka leaned out of the door into the corridor and called out
resoundingly:

"Housekeeper, dear! Two bottles of beer and a bottle of lemonade
for me."

Simeon came with a tray and began with an accustomed rapidity to
uncork the bottles. Following him came Zociya, the housekeeper.

"There, now, how well you've made yourself at home here. Here's to
your lawful marriage!" she congratulated them.

"Daddy, treat the little housekeeper with beer," begged Manka.
"Drink, housekeeper dear."

"Well, in that case here's to your health, mister. Somehow, your
face seems kind of familiar to me?"

The German drank his beer, sucking and licking his moustache, and
impatiently waited for the housekeeper to go away. But she, having
put down her glass and thanked him, said:

"Let me get the money coming from you, mister. As much as is
coming for the beer and the time. That's both better for you and
more convenient for us."

The demand for the money went against the grain of the teacher,
because it completely destroyed the sentimental part of his
intentions. He became angry:

"What sort of boorishness is this, anyway! It doesn't look as if I
were preparing to run away from here. And besides, can't you
discriminate between people at all? You can see that a man of
respectability, in a uniform, has come to you, and not some tramp.
What sort of importunity is this!"

The housekeeper gave in a little.

"Now, don't get offended, mister. Of course, you'll pay the young
lady yourself for the visit. I don't think you will do her any
wrong, she's a fine girl among us. But I must trouble you to pay
for the beer and lemonade. I, too, have to give an account to the
proprietress. Two bottles at fifty is a rouble and the lemonade
thirty--a rouble thirty."

"Good Lord, a bottle of beer fifty kopecks!" the German waxed
indignant. "Why, I will get it in any beer-shop for twelve
kopecks."

"Well, then, go to a beer-shop if it's cheaper there," Zociya
became offended. "But if you've come to a respectable
establishment, the regular price is half a rouble. We don't take
anything extra. There, that's better. Twenty kopecks change coming
to you?"

"Yes, change, without fail," firmly emphasized the German teacher.
"And I would request of you that nobody else should enter."

"No, no, no, what are you saying," Zociya began to bustle near the
door. "Dispose yourself as you please, to your heart's content. A
pleasant appetite to you."

Manka locked the door on a hook after her and sat down on the
German's knee, embracing him with her bare arm.

"Are you here long?" he asked, sipping his beer. He felt dimly
that that imitation of love which must immediately take place
demanded some sort of psychic propinquity, a more intimate
acquaintance, and on that account, despite his impatience, began
the usual conversation, which is carried on by almost all men--
when alone with prostitutes, and which compels the latter to lie
almost mechanically, to lie without mortification, enthusiasm or
malice, according to a single, very ancient stencil.

"Not long, only the third month."

"And how old are you?"

"Sixteen," fibbed Little Manka, taking five years off her age.

"O, such a young one!" the German wondered, and began, bending
down and grunting, to take off his boots. "Then how did you get
here?"

"Well, a certain officer deprived me of my innocence there...near
his birthplace. And it's terrible how strict my mamma is. If she
was to find out, she'd strangle me with her own hands. Well, so
then I ran away from home and got in here..."

"And did you love that same officer, the one who was the first
one, now?"

"If I hadn't loved him, I wouldn't have gone to him. He promised
to marry me, the scoundrel, but then managed to get what he was
after, and abandoned me."

"Well, and were you ashamed the first time?"

"Of course, you'd be ashamed...How do you like it, daddy, with
light or without light? I'll turn, down the lantern a little. All
right?"

"Well, and aren't you bored here? What do they call you?"

"Manya. To be sure I'm bored. What sort of a life is ours!"

The German kissed her hard on her lips and again asked:

"And do you love the men? Are there men who please you? Who afford
you pleasure?"

"How shouldn't there be?" Manka started laughing. "I love the ones
like you especially, such nice little fatties."

"You love them? Eh? Why do you love them?"

"Oh, I love them just so. You're nice, too."

The German meditated for a few seconds, pensively sipping away at
his beer. Then he said that which every man tells a prostitute in
these moments preceding the casual possession of her body:

"Do you know, Marichen, you also please me very much. I would
willingly take you and set you up."

"You're married," the girl objected, touching his ring.

"Yes, but, you understand, I don't live with my wife; she isn't
well, she can't fulfill her conjugal duties."

"The poor thing! If she were to find out where you go, daddy, she
would cry for sure."

"Let's drop that. So, you know, Mary, I am always looking out for
such a girl as you for myself, so modest and pretty. I am a man of
means, I would find a flat with board for you, with fuel and
light. And forty roubles a month pin money. Would you go?"

"Why not go--I'd go."

He kissed her violently, but a secret apprehension glided swiftly
through his cowardly heart.

"But are you healthy?" he asked in an inimical, quavering voice.

"Why, yes, I am healthy. There's a doctor's inspection every
Saturday in our place."

After five minutes she went away from him, as she walked putting
away in her stocking the earned money, on which, as on the first
handsel, she had first spat, after a superstitious custom. There
had been no further speech either about maintenance or natural
liking. The German was left unsatisfied with the frigidity of
Manka and ordered the housekeeper to be summoned to him.

"Housekeeper dear, my husband demands your presence!" said Manya,
coming into the drawing room and fixing her hair before a mirror.

Zociya went away, then returned afterwards and called Pasha out
into the corridor. Later she came back into the drawing room, but
alone.

"How is it, Manka, that you haven't pleased your cavalier?" she
asked with laughter. "He complains about you: 'This,' he says, 'is
no woman, but some log of wood, a piece of ice.' I sent him
Pashka."

"Eh, what a disgusting man!" Manka puckered up her face and spat
aside. "Butts in with his conversations. Asks: 'Do you feel when I
kiss you? Do you feel a pleasant excitement?' An old hound. 'I'll
take you,' he says, 'and set you up!'"

"They all say that," remarked Zoe indifferently.

But Jennie, who since morning has been in an evil mood, suddenly
flared up.

"Oh, the sneak, the big, miserable sneak that he is!" she
exclaimed, turning red and energetically putting her hands to her
sides. "Why, I would take him, the old, dirty little beast, by the
ear, then lead him up to the mirror and show him his disgusting
snout. What? Good-looking, aren't you? And how much better you'll
be when the spit will be running out of your mouth, and you'll
cross your eyes, and begin to choke and rattle in the throat, and
to snort right in the face of the woman. And for your damned
rouble you want me to go all to pieces before you like a pancake,
and that from your nasty love my eyes should pop out onto my
forehead? Why, hit him in the snout, the skunk, in the snout!
Until there's blood!"

"O, Jennie! Stop it now! PFUI!" the susceptible Emma Edwardovna,
made indignant by her tone, stopped her.

"I won't stop!" she cut her short abruptly. But she grew quiet by
herself and wrathfully walked away with distending nostrils and
with fire in the darkened, handsome eyes.





CHAPTER VII.


Little by little the drawing room was filling. There came Roly-
Poly, long known to all Yama--a tall, thin, red-nosed, gray old
man, in the uniform of a forest ranger, in high boots, with a
wooden yard-stick always sticking out of his side-pocket. He
passed whole days and evenings as a habitue of the billiard parlor
in the tavern, always half-tipsy, shedding his little jokes,
jingles and little sayings, acting familiarly with the porters,
with the housekeepers and the girls. In the houses everybody
from the proprietress to the chamber-maids--treated him with a bit
of derision--careless, a trifle contemptuous, but without malice.
At times he was even not without use: he could transmit notes from
the girls to their lovers, and run over to the market or to the
drug-store. Not infrequently, thanks to his loosely hung tongue
and long extinguished self respect, he would worm himself into a
gathering of strangers and increase their expenditures, nor did he
carry elsewhere the money gotten as "loans" on such occasions, but
spent it right here for women--unless, indeed, he left himself
some change for cigarettes. And, out of habit, he was good-
naturedly tolerated.

"And here's Roly-Poly arrived," announced Niura, when he, having
already managed to shake hands amicably with Simeon the porter,
stopped in the doorway of the drawing room, lanky, in a uniform
cap knocked at a brave slant over one side of his head. "Well,
now, Roly-Poly, fire away!"

"I have the honour to present myself," Roly-Poly immediately
commenced to grimace, putting his hand up to his brim in military
fashion, "a right honourable privy frequenter of the local
agreeable establishments, Prince Bottlekin, Count Liquorkin, Baron
Whoatinkevich-Giddapkovski--Mister Beethoven! Mister Chopin!" he
greeted the musicians. "Play me something from the opera The Brave
and Charming General Anisimov, or, A Hubbub in the Coolidor. My
regards to the little political economist Zociya. [Footnote: An
untranslatable pun on Economochka, a diminutive for
"housekeeper."--Trans.] A-ha! Then you kiss only at Easter? We
shall write that down. Ooh-you, my Tomalachka, my pitty-itty
tootsicums!"

And so with jests and with pinches he went the round of all the
girls and at last sat down alongside of the fat Katie, who put her
fat leg upon his, leant with her elbow upon her knee, while upon
the palm she laid her chin, and began to watch indifferently and
closely the surveyor rolling a cigarette for himself.

"And how is it that you don't ever get tired of it, Roly-Poly?
You're forever rolling a coffin nail."

Roly-Poly at once commenced to move his eye-brows and the skin of
his scalp and began to speak in verse:

    "Dear cigarette, my secret mate,
    How can I help loving thee?
    Not through mere whim, prompted by fate,
    All have started smoking thee."

"Why, Roly-Poly, but you are going to croak soon," said Kitty
indifferently.

"And a very simple matter, that."

"Roly-Poly, say something still funnier, in verse," begged Verka.

And at once, obediently, having placed himself in a funny pose, he
began to declaim:

    "Many stars are in the bright sky,
    But to count them there's no way.
    Yes, the wind whispers there can be,
    But there really is no way.
    Blossoming now are burdocks,
    Now sing out the birds called cocks."

Playing the tom-fool in this manner, Roly-Poly would sit whole
evenings and nights through in the drawing rooms of the
establishments. And through some strange psychic fellow feeling
the girls counted him almost as one of their own; occasionally
rendered him little temporary services and even bought him beer
and vodka at their expense.

Some time after Roly-Poly a large company of hairdressers, who
were that day free from work, tumbled in. They were noisy, gay,
but even here, in a brothel, did not cease their petty reckonings
and conversations about closed and open theatrical benefits, about
the bosses, about the wives of the bosses. All these were people
corrupt to a sufficient degree, liars, with great hopes for the
future--such as, for example, entering the service of some
countess as a kept lover. They wanted to utilize to the widest
possible extent their rather hard-earned money, and on that
account decided to make a review of absolutely all the houses of
Yama; only Treppel's they could not resolve to enter, as that was
too swell for them. But at Anna Markovna's they at once ordered a
quadrille and danced it, especially the fifth figure, where the
gents execute a solo, perfectly, like real Parisians, even putting
their thumbs in the arm holes of their vests. But they did not
want to remain with the girls; instead, they promised to come
later, when they had wound up the complete review of the brothels.

And there also came and went government clerks of some sort; crisp
young people in patent leather boots; several students; several
officers, who were horribly afraid of losing their dignity in the
eyes of the proprietress and the guests of the brothel. Little by
little in the drawing room was created such a noisy, fumy setting
that no one there any longer felt ill at ease. There came a steady
visitor, the lover of Sonka the Rudder, who came almost every day
and sat whole hours through near his beloved, gazed upon her with
languishing oriental eyes, sighed, grew faint and created scenes
for her because she lives in a brothel, because she sins against
the Sabbath, because she eats meat not prepared in the orthodox
Hebrew manner, and because she has strayed from the family and the
great Hebrew church.

As a usual thing--and this happened often--Zociya the housekeeper
would walk up to him under cover of the hubbub and would say,
twisting her lips:

"Well, what are you sitting there for mister? Warming your behind?
You might go and pass the time with the young lady."

Both of them, the Jew and the Jewess, were by birth from Homel,
and must have been created by God himself for a tender,
passionate, mutual love; but many circumstances--as, for example,
the pogrom which took place in their town, impoverishment, a
complete confusion, fright--had for a time parted them. However,
love was so great that the junior drug clerk Neiman, with great
difficulty, efforts, and humiliations, contrived to find for
himself the place of a junior in one of the local pharmacies, and
had searched out the girl he loved. He was a real, orthodox
Hebrew, almost fanatical. He knew that Sonka had been sold by her
very mother to one of the buyers-up of live merchandise, knew many
humiliating, hideous particulars of how she had been resold from
hand to hand, and his pious, fastidious, truly Hebraic soul
writhed and shuddered at these thoughts, but nevertheless love was
above all. And every evening he would appear in the drawing room
of Anna Markovna. If he was successful, at an enormous
deprivation, in cutting out of his beggarly income some chance
rouble, he would take Sonka into her room, but this was not at all
a joy either for him or for her: after a momentary happiness--the
physical possession of each other--they cried, reproached each
other, quarreled with characteristic Hebraic, theatrical gestures,
and always after these visits Sonka the Rudder would return into
the drawing room with swollen, reddened eyelids.

But most frequently of all he had no money, and would sit whole
evenings through near his mistress, patiently and jealously
awaiting her when Sonka through chance was taken by some guest.
And when she would return and sit down beside him, he would,
without being perceived, overwhelm her with reproaches, trying not
to turn the general attention upon himself and without turning his
head in her direction. And in her splendid, humid, Hebraic eyes
during these conversations there was always a martyr-like but meek
expression.

There arrived a large company of Germans, employed in an optical
shop; there also arrived a party of clerks from the fish and
gastronomical store of Kereshkovsky, and two young people very
well known in the Yamas--both bald, with sparse, soft, delicate
hairs around the bald spots: Nicky the Book-keeper and Mishka the
Singer--so were they both called in the houses. They also were met
very cordially, just like Karl Karlovich of the optical shop and
Volodka of the fish store--with raptures, cries and kisses,
flattering to their self-esteem. The spry Niurka would jump out
into the foyer, and, having informed herself as to who had come,
would report excitedly, after her wont:

    "Jennka, your husband has come!"

Or:

    "Little Manka, your lover has come!"

And Mishka the Singer, who was no singer at all, but the owner of
a drug warehouse, at once, upon entering, sang out in a vibrating,
quavering, goatish voice:

    "They fe-e-e-l the tru-u-u-u-uth!
    Come thou daw-aw-aw-aw-ning..."

which he perpetrated at every visit of his to Anna Markovna.

Almost incessantly they played the quadrille, waltz, polka, and
danced. There also arrived Senka--the lover of Tamara--but,
contrary to his wont, he did not put on airs, did not go in for
"ruination," did not order a funeral march from Isaiah Savvich,
and did not treat the girls to chocolate ... For some reason he
was gloomy, limped on his right leg, and sought to attract as
little attention as possible--probably his professional affairs
were at this time in a bad way. With a single motion of his head,
while walking, he called Tamara out of the drawing room and
vanished with her into her room. And there also arrived Egmont-
Lavretzki the actor, clean-shaven, tall, resembling a court flunky
with his vulgar and insolently contemptuous face.

The clerks from the gastronomical store danced with all the ardour
of youth and with all the decorum recommended by Herman Hoppe, the
self-instructor of good manners. In this regard the girls also
responded to their intentions. Both with these and with the others
it was accounted especially decorous and well-bred to dance as
rigidly as possible, keeping the arms hanging down, while the
heads were raised high and inclined to one side with a certain
proud, and, at the same time, tired and enervated air. In the
intermissions, between the figures of the dance, it was necessary
to fan one's self with a handkerchief, with a bored and negligent
air ... In a word, they all made believe that they belonged to the
choicest society, and that if they do dance, they only do it out
of condescension, as a little comradely turn. But still they
danced so ardently that the perspiration rolled down in streams
from the clerks of Kereshkovsky.

Two or three rows had already happened in different houses. Some
man, all in blood, whose face in the pale light of the moon's
crescent seemed black from the blood, was running around in the
street, cursing, and, without paying the least attention to his
wounds, was searching for his cap which had been lost in the
brawl. On Little Yamskaya some government scribes had had a fight
with a ship's company. The tired pianists and musicians played as
in a delirium, in a doze, through mechanical habit. This was
towards the waning of the night.

Altogether unexpectedly, seven students, a sub-professor, and a
local reporter walked into the establishment of Anna Markovna.





CHAPTER VIII.


They had all, except the reporter, passed the whole day together,
from the very morning, celebrating May Day with some young women
of their acquaintance. They had rowed in boats on the Dnieper, had
cooked field porridge on the other side of the river, in the
thick, bitter-smelling underbrush; had bathed--men and women by
turns--in the rapid, warm water; had drunk home-made spiced
brandy, sung sonorous songs of Little Russia, and had returned to
town only late in the evening, when the dark, broad, running river
so eerily and merrily plashed against the sides of their boats,
playing with the reflections of the stars, the silvery shimmering
paths of the electric lamps, and the bowing lights of the can-
buoys. And when they had stepped out on the shore, the palms of
each burned from the oars, the muscles of the arms and legs ached
pleasantly, and suffusing the whole body was a blissful, healthy
fatigue.

Then they had escorted the young women to their homes and at the
garden-gates and entrances had taken leave of them long and
cordially, with laughter and with such swinging hand-shakes as if
they were working the lever of a pump.

The whole day had passed in gaiety and noise, even a trifle
clamorously, and just the least wee bit tiresomely, but with
youth-like continence; without intoxication, and, which happens
especially rarely, without the least shadow of mutual affronts, or
jealousy, or unvoiced mortifications. Of course, such a benign
mood had been helped by the sun, the fresh river breeze, the sweet
exhalations of the grasses and the water, the joyous sensation of
the strength and alertness of one's body while bathing and rowing,
and the restraining influence of the clever, kind, pure and
handsome girls from families they were acquainted with. But,
almost without the knowledge of their consciousness, their
sensuousness--not imagination, but the simple, healthy,
instinctive sensuousness of young playful males--kindled from
chance encounters of their hands with feminine hands and from
comradely obliging embraces, when the occasion arose to help the
young ladies enter a boat or jump out on shore; from the tender
odour of maiden apparel, warmed by the sun; from the feminine
cries of coquettish fright on the river; from the sight of
feminine figures, negligently half-reclining with a naive
immodesty on the green grass around the samovar--from all these
innocent liberties, which are so usual and unavoidable on picnics,
country outings and river excursions, when within man, in the
infinite depth of his soul, secretly awakens from the care-free
contact with earth, grasses, water and sun, the beast-ancient,
splendid, free, but disfigured and intimidated of men.

And for that reason, at two o'clock in the night, when THE
SPARROWS, a cozy students' restaurant, had barely closed, and all
the eight, excited by alcohol and the plentiful food, had come out
of the smoky, fumy underground place into the street, into the
sweet, disquieting darkness of the night, with its beckoning fires
in the sky and on the earth, with its warm, heady air, from which
the nostrils dilate avidly, with its aromas, gliding from unseen
gardens and flower-beds,--the head of each one of them was aflame
and the heart quietly and languishingly yearning from vague
desires. It was joyous and arrogant to sense after the rest the
new, fresh strength in all the sinews, the deep breathing of the
lungs, the red, resilient blood in the veins, the supple obedience
of all the members. And--without words, without thoughts, without
consciousness--one was drawn on this night to be running without
raiment in the somnolent forest, to be sniffing hurriedly the
tracks of some one's feet on the dewy grass, with a loud call to
be summoning a female unto one's self.

But to separate was now very difficult. The whole day, passed
together, had shaken them into an accustomed, tenacious herd. It
seemed that if even one were to go away from the company, a
certain attained equilibrium would be disturbed and could not be
restored afterwards. And so they dallied and stamped upon the
sidewalk, near the exit of the tavern's underground vault,
interfering with the progress of the infrequent passers-by. They
discussed hypocritically where else they might go to wind up the
night. It proved to be too far to the Tivoli Garden, and in
addition to that one also had to pay for admission tickets, and
the prices in the buffet were outrageous, and the program had
ended long ago. Volodya Pavlov proposed going to him--he had a
dozen of beer and a little cognac home. But it seemed a bore to
all of them to go in the middle of the night to a family
apartment, to enter on tiptoes up the stairs and to talk in
whispers all the time.

"Tell you what, brethren ... Let's better ride to the girlies,
that will be nearer the mark," said peremptorily Lichonin, an old
student, a tall, stooping, morose and bearded fellow. By
convictions he was an anarchist--theoretic, but by avocation a
passionate gambler at billiards, races and cards--a gambler with a
very broad, fatalistic sweep. Only the day before he had won a
thousand roubles at macao in the Merchants' Club, and this money
was still burning a hole in his pockets.

"And why not? Right-o!" somebody sustained him. "Let's go,
comrades?"

"Is it worth while? Why, this is an all night affair ..." spoke
another with a false prudence and an insincere fatigue.

And a third said through a feigned yawn:

"Let's better go home, gentlemen ... a-a-a ... go bye-bye ...
That's enough for to-day."

"You won't work any wonders when you're asleep," Lichonin remarked
sneeringly. "Herr professor, are you coming?"

But the sub-professor Yarchenko was obstinate and seemed really
angered, although, perhaps, he himself did not know what was
lurking within him, in some dark cranny of his soul.

"Leave me in peace, Lichonin. As I see it, gentlemen, this is
downright and plain swinishness--that which you are about to do.
We have passed the time so wonderfully, amiably and simply, it
seems,--but no, you needs must, like drunken cattle, clamber into
a cesspool. I won't go."

"Still, if my memory does not play me false," said Lichonin, with
calm causticity, "I recollect that no further back than past
autumn we with a certain future Mommsen were pouring in some place
or other a jug of ice into a pianoforte, delineating a Bouratian
god, dancing the belly-dance, and all that sort of thing?"

Lichonin spoke the truth. In his student days, and later, being
retained at the university, Yarchenko had led the most wanton and
crack-brained life. In all the taverns, cabarets, and other places
of amusement his small, fat, roundish little figure, his rosy
cheeks, puffed out like those of a painted cupid, and the shining,
humid kindly eyes were well known, his hurried, spluttering speech
and shrill laughter remembered.

His comrades could never fathom where he found the time to employ
in study, but nevertheless he went through all examinations and
prescribed work with distinction and from the first course the
professors had him in view. Now Yarchenko was beginning little by
little to quit his former comrades and bottle companions. He had
just established the indispensable connections with the
professorial circle; the reading of lectures in Roman history for
the coming year had been offered him, and not infrequently in
conversation he would use the expression current among the sub-
professors: "We, the learned ones!" The student familiarity, the
compulsory companionship, the obligatory participation in all
meetings, protests and demonstrations, were becoming
disadvantageous to him, embarrassing, and even simply tedious. But
he knew the value of popularity among the younger element, and for
that reason could not decide to sever relations abruptly with his
former circle. Lichonin's words, however, provoked him.

"Oh, my God, what does it matter what we did when we were
youngsters? We stole sugar, soiled our panties, tore the wings off
beetles," Yarchenko began to speak, growing heated, and
spluttering. "But there is a limit and a mean to all this. I,
gentlemen, do not presume, of course, to give you counsels and to
teach you, but one must be consistent. We are all agreed that
prostitution is one of the greatest calamities of humanity, and
are also agreed, that in this evil not the women are guilty, but
we, men, because the demand gives birth to the offer. And
therefore if, having drunk a glass of wine too much, I still,
notwithstanding my convictions, go to the prostitutes, I am
committing a triple vileness: before the unfortunate, foolish
woman, whom I subject to the most degrading form of slavery for my
filthy rouble; before humanity, because, hiring a public woman for
an hour or two for my abominable lust, I through this justify and
uphold prostitution; and finally, this is a vileness before one's
own conscience and mind. And before logic."

"Phew-ew!" Lichonin let out a long-drawn whistle and chanted in a
thin, dismal voice, nodding in time with his head hanging down to
one side: "The philosopher is off on our usual stuff: 'A rope--is
a common cord.'"

"Of course, there's nothing easier than to play the tom-fool,"
responded Yarchenko. "But in my opinion there is not in the
sorrowful life of Russia a more mournful phenomenon than this
lackadaisicalness and vitiation of thought. To-day we will say to
ourselves: Eh! It's all the same, whether I go to a brothel or
whether I do not go, from this one time things will get neither
worse nor better. And after five years we will be saying:
Undoubtedly a bribe is a horribly nasty bit of business, but you
know--children ... the family ... And just the same way after ten
years we, having remained fortuitous Russian liberals, will be
sighing about personal freedom and bowing low before worthless
scoundrels, whom we despise, and will be cooling our heels in
their ante-rooms. 'Because, don't you know,' we will say,
tittering, 'when you live with wolves, you must howl like a wolf.'
By God, it wasn't in vain that some minister called the Russian
students future head-clerks!"

"Or professors," Lichonin put in.

"But most important of all," continued Yarchenko, letting this
pointed remark pass by, "most important of all is this, that I
have seen all of you to-day on the river and afterwards there ...
on the other shore ... with these charming, fine girls. How
attentive, well-bred, obliging you all were--but scarcely have you
taken leave of them, when you are drawn to public women. Let each
one of you imagine for a moment, that we all had been visiting his
sisters and straight from them had driven to Yama ... What? Is
such a supposition pleasant?"

"Yes, but there must exist some valves for the passions of
society," pompously remarked Boris Sobashnikov, a tall, somewhat
supercilious and affected young man, upon whom the short, white
summer uniform jacket, which scarcely covered his fat posteriors,
the modish trousers, of a military cut, the PINCE-NEZ on a broad,
black ribbon, and a cap after a Prussian model, all bestowed the
air of a coxcomb. "Surely, it isn't more respectable to enjoy the
caresses of your chambermaid, or to carry on an intrigue on the
side with another man's wife? What am I to do if woman is
indispensable to me!"

"Eh, very indispensable indeed!" said Yarchenko with vexation and
feebly made a despondent gesture.

But here a student who was called Ramses in the friendly coterie
intervened. This was a yellowish-swarthy, hump-nosed man of small
stature; his clean-shaven face seemed triangular, thanks to a
broad forehead, beginning to get bald, with two wedge-like bald
spots at the temples, fallen-in cheeks and a sharp chin. He led a
mode of life sufficiently queer for a student. While his
colleagues employed themselves by turns with politics, love, the
theatre, and a little in study, Ramses had withdrawn entirely into
the study of all conceivable suits and claims, into the chicane
subtleties of property, hereditary, land and other business law-
suits, into the memorizing and logical analysis of quashed
decisions. Perfectly of his own will, without in the least needing
the money, he served for a year as a clerk at a notary's for
another as a secretary to a justice of the peace, while all of the
past year, being in the last term, he had conducted in a local
newspaper the reports of the city council and had borne the modest
duty of an assistant to a secretary in the management of a
syndicate of sugar manufacturers. And when this same syndicate
commenced the well-known suit against one of its members, Colonel
Baskakov, who had put up the surplus sugar for sale contrary to
agreement, Ramses from the very beginning guessed beforehand and
very subtly engineered, precisely that decision which the senate
subsequently handed down in this suit.

Despite his comparative youth, rather well-known jurists gave heed
to his opinions--true, a little loftily. None of those who knew
Ramses closely doubted that he would make a brilliant career, and
even Ramses himself did not conceal his confidence in that toward
thirty-five he would knock together a million, exclusively through
his practice as a civil lawyer. His comrades not infrequently
elected him chairman of meetings and head of the class, but this
honour Ramses invariably declined, excusing himself with lack of
time. But still he did not avoid participation in his comrades'
trials by arbitration, and his arguments--always incontrovertibly
logical--were possessed of an amazing virtue in ending the trials
with peace, to the mutual satisfaction of the litigating parties.
He, as well as Yarchenko, knew well the value of popularity among
the studying youths, and even if he did look upon people with a
certain contempt, from above, still he never, by as much as a
single movement of his thin, clever, energetical lips, showed
this.

"Well, Gavrila Petrovich, no one is necessarily dragging you into
committing a fall from grace," said Ramses in a conciliatory
manner, "What is all this pathos and melancholy for, when the
matter as it stands is altogether simple? A company of young
Russian gentlemen wishes to pass the remnant of the night modestly
and amicably, to make merry, to sing a little, and to take
internally several gallons of wine and beer. But everything is
closed now, except these very same houses. ERGO! ..."

"Consequently, we will go merry-making to women who are for sale?
To prostitutes? Into a brothel?" Yarchenko interrupted him,
mockingly and inimically.

"And even so? A certain philosopher, whom it was desired to
humiliate, was given a seat at dinner near the musicians. But he,
sitting down, said: 'Here is a sure means of making the last place
the first.' And finally I repeat: If your conscience does not
allow you, as you express yourself, to buy a woman, then you can
go there and come away, preserving your innocence in all its
blossoming inviolability."

"You overdo it, Ramses," objected Yarchenko with displeasure. "You
remind me of those bourgeois, who, while it is still dark, have
gathered to gape at an execution and who say: we have nothing to
do with this, we are against capital punishment, this is all the
prosecuting attorney's and the executioner's doing."

"Superbly said and partly true, Gavrila Petrovich. But to us,
precisely, this comparison may not even apply. One cannot, you
see, treat some malignant disease while absent, without seeing the
sufferer in person. And yet all of us, who are now standing here
in the street and interfering with the passers-by, will be obliged
at some time in our work to run up against the terrible problem of
prostitution, and what a prostitution at that--the Russian!
Lichonin, I, Borya Sobashnikov and Pavlov as jurists, Petrovsky
and Tolpygin as medicos. True, Veltman has a distinct specialty--
mathematics. But then, he will be a pedagogue, a guide of youth,
and, deuce take it, even a father! And if you are going to scare
with a bugaboo, it is best to look upon it one's self first. And
finally, you yourself, Gavrila Petrovich--expert of dead languages
and future luminary of grave digging--is the comparison, then, of
the contemporary brothels, say, with some Pompeian lupanaria, or
the institution of sacred prostitution in Thebes and Nineveh, not
important and instructive to you? ..."

"Bravo, Ramses, magnificent!" roared Lichonin. "And what's there
to talk so much about, fellows? Take the professor under the gills
and put him in a cab!"

The students, laughing and jostling, surrounded Yarchenko, seized
him under the arms, caught him around the waist. All of them were
equally drawn to the women, but none, save Lichonin, had enough
courage to take the initiative upon himself. But now all this
complicated, unpleasant and hypocritical business was happily
resolved into a simple, easy joke upon the older comrade.
Yarchenko resisted, and was angry, and laughing, trying to break
away. But at this moment a tall, black-moustached policeman, who
had long been eyeing them keenly and inimically, walked up to the
uproarious students.

"I'd ask you stewdent gents not to congregate. It's not allowed!
Keep on going!"

They moved on in a throng. Yarchenka was beginning to soften
little by little.

"Gentlemen, I am ready to go with you, if you like ... Do not
think, however, that the sophistries of the Egyptian Pharaoh
Ramses have convinced me ... No, I simply would be sorry to break
up the party ... But I make one stipulation: we will drink a
little there, gab a little, laugh a little, and so forth ... but
let there be nothing more, no filth of any kind ... It is shameful
and painful to think that we, the flower and glory--of the Russian
intelligentzia, will go all to pieces and let our mouths water at
the sight of the first skirt that comes our way."

"I swear it!" said Lichonin, putting up his hand.

"I can vouch for myself," said Ramses.

"And I! And I! By God, gentlemen, let's pledge our words ...
Yarchenko is right," others took up.

They seated themselves in twos and threes in the cabs--the drivers
of which had been long since following them in a file, grinning
and cursing each other--and rode off. Lichonin, for the sake of
assurance, sat down beside the sub-professor, having embraced him
around the waist and seated him on his knees and those of his
neighbour, the little Tolpygin, a rosy, pleasant-faced boy on
whose face, despite his twenty-three years, the childish white
down--soft and light--still showed.

"The station is at Doroshenko's!" called out Lichonin after the
cabbies driving off. "The stop is at Doroshenko's," he repeated,
turning around.

They all stopped at Doroshenko's restaurant, entered the general
room, and crowded about the bar. All were satiated and no one
wanted either to drink or to have a bite. But in the soul of each
one still remained a dark trace of the consciousness that right
now they were getting ready to commit something needlessly
shameful, getting ready to take part in some convulsive,
artificial, and not at all a merry merriment. And in each one was
the yearning to bring himself through intoxication to that misty
and rainbow condition when nothing makes any difference, and when
the head does not know what the arms and legs are doing, and what
the tongue is babbling. And, probably, not the students alone, but
all the casual and constant visitors of Yama experienced in
greater or lesser degree the friction of this inner psychic heart-
sore, because Doroshenko did business only late in the evening and
night, and no one lingered long in his place but only turned in in
passing, half-way on the journey.

While the students were drinking cognac, beer and vodka, Ramses
was constantly and intently looking into the farthest corner of
the restaurant hall, where two men were sitting--a tattered, gray,
big old man, and, opposite him, his back to the bar, with his
elbows spread out upon the table and his chin resting on the fists
folded upon each other, some hunched up, stout, closely-propped
gentleman in a gray suit. The old man was picking upon a dulcimer
lying before him and quietly singing, in a hoarse but pleasing
voice:

     "Oh my valley, my little valley,
     Bro-o-o-o-o-oad land of plenty."

"Excuse me, but that is a co-worker of ours," said Ramses, and
went to greet the gentleman in the gray suit. After a minute he
led him up to the bar and introduced him to his comrades.

"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you my companion in arms in
the newspaper game, Sergei Ivanovich Platonov. The laziest and
most talented of newspaper workers."

They all introduced themselves, indistinctly muttering out their
names.

"And therefore, let's have a drink," said Uchonin, while Yarchenko
asked with the refined amiability which never forsook him:

"Pardon me, pardon me, but I am acquainted with you a little, even
though not personally. Weren't you in the university when
Professor Priklonsky defended the doctor's dissertation?"

"It was I," answered the reporter.

"Ah, that's very nice," smiled Yarchenko charmingly, and for some
reason once more pressed Platonov's hand vigorously. "I read your
report afterwards: very exactly, circumstantially and skillfully
put together ... Won't you favor me? ... To your health!"

"Then allow me, too," said Platonov. "Onuphriy Zakharich, pour out
for us again ... one ... two, three, four ... nine glasses of
cognac..."

"Oh no, you can't do that ... you are our guest, colleague,"
remonstrated Lichonin.

"Well, now, what sort of colleague am I to you?" good-naturedly
laughed the reporter. "I was only in the first class and then only
for half a year--as an unmatriculated student. Here you are,
Onuphriy Zakharich. Gentlemen, I beg you..."

The upshot of it was that after half an hour Lichonin and
Yarchenko did not under any consideration want to part with the
reporter and dragged him with them to Yama. However, he did not
resist.

"If I am not a burden to you, I would be very glad," he said
simply. "All the more since I have easy money to-day. THE DNIEPER
WORD has paid me an honorarium, and this is just as much of a
miracle as winning two hundred thousand on a check from a theatre
coat room. Pardon me, I'll be right back..."

He walked up to the old man with whom he had been sitting before,
shoved some money into his hand, and gently took leave of him.

"Where I'm going, grandpa, there you mustn't go--to-morrow we will
meet in the same place as to-day. Good-bye!"

They all walked out of the restaurant. At the door Borya
Sobashnikov, always a little finical and unnecessarily
supercilious, stopped Lichonin and called him to one side.

"I'm surprised at you, Lichonin," he said squeamishly. "We have
gathered together in our own close company, yet you must needs
drag in some vagabond. The devil knows who he is!"

"Quit that, Borya," answered Lichonin amicably. "He's a warm-
hearted fellow."





CHAPTER IX.


"Well now, gentlemen, this isn't fit for pigs," Yarchenko was
saying, grumblingly, at the entrance of Anna Markovna's
establishment. "If we finally have gone, we might at least have
chosen a decent place, and not some wretched hole. Really,
gentlemen, let's better go to Treppel's alongside; there it's
clean and light, at any rate."

"If you please, if you please, signior," insisted Lichonin,
opening the door before the sub-professor with courtly urbanity,
bowing and spreading his arms before him. "If you please."

"But this is an abomination ... At Treppel's the women are better-
looking, at least,"

Ramses, walking behind, burst into dry laughter.

"So, so, Gavrila Petrovich. Let us continue in the same spirit.
Let us condemn the hungry, petty thief who has stolen a five-
kopeck loaf out of a tray, but if the director of a bank has
squandered somebody else's million on race horses and cigars, let
us mitigate his lot."

"Pardon me, but I do not understand this comparison," answered
Yarchenko with restraint. "However, it's all the same to me; let's
go."

"And all the more so," said Lichonin, letting the subprofessor
pass ahead; "all the more so, since this house guards within it so
many historical traditions. Comrades! Decades of student
generations gaze upon us from the heights of the coat-hooks, and,
besides that, through the power of the usual right, children and
students pay half here, as in a panopticon. Isn't that so, citizen
Simeon?"

Simeon did not like to have people come in large parties--this
always smacked of scandal in the not distant future; moreover, he
despised students in general for their speech, but little
comprehensible to him, for their propensity towards frivolous
jokes, for their godlessness, and chiefly because they were in
constant revolt against officialdom and order. It was not in vain
that on the day when on the Bessarabian Square the cossacks, meat-
sellers, flour dealers and fish mongers were massacring the
students, Simeon having scarce found it out had jumped into a fine
carriage passing by, and, standing just like a chief of police in
the victoria, tore off to the scene of the fray in order to take
part in it. He esteemed people who were sedate, stout and elderly,
who came singly, in secret, peeped in cautiously from the ante-
room into the drawing room, fearing to meet with acquaintances,
and very soon and with great haste went away, tipping him
generously. Such he always styled "Your Excellency."

And so, while taking the light grey overcoat off Yarchenko, he
sombrely and with much significance snarled back in answer to
Lichonin's banter:

"I am no citizen here, but the bouncer."

"Upon which I have the honour to congratulate you," answered
Lichonin with a polite bow.

There were many people in the drawing room. The clerks, having
danced their fill, were sitting, red and wet, near their ladies,
rapidly fanning themselves with their handkerchiefs; they smelt
strongly of old goats' wool. Mishka the Singer and his friend the
Book-keeper, both bald, with soft, downy hairs around the denuded
skulls, both with turbid, nacreous, intoxicated eyes, were sitting
opposite each other, leaning with their elbows on a little marble
table, and were constantly trying to start singing in unison with
such quavering and galloping voices as though some one was very,
very often striking them in the cervical vertebrae:

    "They fe-e-e-l the tru-u-u-u-uth!"

while Emma Edwardovna and Zociya with all their might were
exhorting them not to behave indecently. Roly-Poly was peacefully
slumbering on a chair, his head hanging down, having laid one long
leg over the other and grasped the sharp knee with his clasped
hands.

The girls at once recognized some of the students and ran to meet
them.

"Tamarochka, your husband has come--Volodenka. And my husband
too!--Mishka!" cried Niura piercingly, hanging herself on the neck
of the lanky, big-nosed, solemn Petrovsky. "Hello, Mishenka. Why
haven't you come for so long? I grew weary of waiting for you."

Yarchenko with a feeling of awkwardness was looking about him on
all sides.

"We'd like to have in some way ... don't you know ... a little
private room," he said with delicacy to Emma Edwardovna who had
approached. "And give us some sort of red wine, please ... And
then, some coffee as well ... You know yourself."

Yarchenko always instilled confidence in servants and MAITRES
D'HOTEL, with his dashing clothes and polite but seigniorial ways.
Emma Edwardovna started nodding her head willingly, just like an
old, fat circus horse.

"It can be done ... it can be done ... Pass this way, gentlemen,
into the parlor. It can be done, it can be done ... What liqueur?
We have only Benedictine ... Benedictine, then? It can be done, it
can be done ... And will you allow the young ladies to come in?"

"Well, if that is so indispensable?" Yarchenko spread out his
hands with a sigh.

And at once the girls one after the other straggled into the
parlor with its gray plush furniture and blue lantern. They
entered, extended to every one in turn their unbending palms,
unused to hand-clasps, gave their names abruptly in a low voice--
Manya, Katie, Liuba ... They sat down on somebody's knees,
embraced him around the neck, and, as usual, began to importune:

"Little student, you're such a little good-looker. May I ask for
oranzes?"

"Volodenka, buy me some candy! All right?"

"And me chocolate!"

"Fatty," Vera, dressed as a jockey, wheedled the sub-professor,
clambering up on his knees, "I have a friend, only she's sick and
can't come out into the drawing room. I'll carry her some apples
and chocolate. Will you let me?"

"Well, now, those are all just stories about a friend! But above
all, don't be thrusting your tenderness at me. Sit as smart
children sit, right here alongside, on the arm chair, just so. And
fold your little hands."

"Ah, but what if I can't!" writhed Vera in coquetry, rolling her
eyes up under her upper lids ... "When you are so nice."

But Lichonin, in answer to this professional beggary, only nodded
his head gravely and good-naturedly, just like Emma Edwardovna,
and repeated over and over again, mimicking her German accent:

"Itt can pe done, itt can pe done, itt can pe done..."

"Then I will tell the waiter, honey, to carry my friend some
sweets and apples?" pestered Vera.

Such importunity entered the round of their tacit duties. There
even existed among the girls some captious, childish, strange
rivalry as to the ability to "ease a guest of his money"--strange
enough because they did not derive any profit out of this, unless,
indeed, a certain affection from the housekeeper or a word of
approbation from the proprietress. But in their petty, monotonous,
habitually frivolous life there was, in general, a great deal of
semi-puerile, semi-hysterical play.

Simeon brought a coffee pot, cups, a squatty bottle of
Benedictine, fruits and bon-bons in glass vases, and gaily and
easily began making the corks of the beer and wine pop.

"But why don't you drink?" Yarchenko turned to the reporter
Platonov. "Allow me ... I do not mistake? Sergei Ivanovich, I
believe?"

"Right."

"Allow me to offer you a cup of coffee, Sergei Ivanovich. It's
refreshing. Or perhaps, let's drink this same dubious Lafitte?"

"No, you really must allow me to refuse. I have a drink of my own
... Simeon, give me..."

"Cognac!" cried out Niura hurriedly.

"And with a pear!" Little White Manka caught up just as fast.

"I heard you, Sergei Ivanich--right away," unhurriedly but
respectfully responded Simeon, and, bending down and letting out a
grunt, resoundingly drew the cork out of the neck of the bottle.

"It's the first time I hear of cognac being served in Yama,"
uttered Lichonin with amazement. "No matter how much I asked, they
always refused me."

"Perhaps Sergei Ivanich knows some sort of magic word," jested
Ramses.

"Or is held here in an especially honoured state?" Boris
Sobashnikov put in pointedly, with emphasis.

The reporter listlessly, without turning his head, looked askance
at Sobashnikov, at the lower row of buttons on his short, foppish,
white summer uniform jacket, and answered with a drawl:

"There is nothing honourable in that I can drink like a horse and
never get drunk; but then, I also do not quarrel with anyone or
pick upon anybody. Evidently, these good sides of my character are
sufficiently known here, and because of that confidence is shown
me."

"Good for you, old fellow!" joyously exclaimed Lichonin, who was
delighted by a certain peculiar, indolent negligence--of few
words, yet at the same time self-confident--in the reporter. "Will
you share the cognac with me also?"

"Very, very gladly," affably answered Platonov and suddenly looked
at Lichonin with a radiant, almost child-like smile, which
beautified his plain face with the prominent cheek-bones. "You,
too, appealed to me from the first. And even when I saw you there,
at Doroshenko's, I at once thought that you are not at all as
rough as you seem."

"Well, now, we have exchanged pleasantries," laughed Lichonin.
"But it's amazing that we haven't met once just here. Evidently,
you come to Anna Markovna's quite frequently?"

"Even too much so."

"Sergei Ivanich is our most important guest!" naively shrieked
Niura. "Sergei Ivanich is a sort of brother among us!"

"Fool!" Tamara stopped her.

"That seems strange to me," continued Lichonin. "I, too, am a
habitue. In any case, one can only envy everybody's cordiality
toward you."

"The local chieftain!" said Boris Sobashnikov, curling his lips
downward, but said it so low that Platanov, if he chose to, could
pretend that he had not heard anything distinctly. This reporter
had for long aroused in Boris some blind and prickling irritation.
That he was not one of his own herd really meant nothing. But
Boris, like many students (and also officers, junkers, and high-
school boys) had grown accustomed to the fact that the outside
"civilian" people, who accidentally fell into a company of
students on a spree, should hold themselves somewhat subordinately
and with servility in it, flatter the studying youths, be struck
with its daring, laugh at its jokes, admire its self-admiration,
recall their own student years with a sigh of suppressed envy. But
in Platonov there not only was none of this customary wagging of
the tail before youth, but, on the contrary, there was to be felt
a certain abstracted, calm and polite indifference.

Besides that, Sobashnikov was angered--and angered with a petty,
jealous vexation--by that simple and yet anticipatory attention
which was shown to the reporter by everybody in the establishment,
beginning with the porter and ending with the fleshy, taciturn
Katie. This attention was shown in the way he was listened to, in
that triumphal carefulness with which Tamara filled his glass, and
in the way Little White Manka pared a pear for him solicitously,
and in the delight of Zoe, who had caught the case skillfully
thrown to her across the table by the reporter, when she had
vainly asked for a cigarette from her two neighbors, who were lost
in conversation; and in the way none of the girls begged either
chocolate or fruits from him, in the lively gratitude for his
little services and his treating. "Pimp!" Sobashkinov had almost
decided mentally with malice, but did not believe it even himself
--the reporter was altogether too homely and too carelessly
dressed, and moreover he bore himself with great dignity.

Platonov again made believe that he had not heard the insolent
remark made by the student. He only nervously crumpled a napkin in
his fingers and lightly threw it aside from him. And again his
eyelids quivered in the direction of Boris Sobashnikov.

"Yes, true, I am one of the family here," he continued calmly,
moving his glass in slow circles on the table. "Just think, I
dined in this very house, day after day, for exactly four months."

"No? Seriously?" Yarchenko wondered and laughed.

"In all seriousness. The table here isn't at all bad, by the way.
The food is filling and savory, although exceedingly greasy."

"But how did you ever..."

"Why, just because I was tutoring for high school a daughter of
Anna Markovna, the lady of this hospitable house. Well, I
stipulated that part of my monthly pay should be deducted for my
dinners."

"What a strange fancy!" said Yarchenko. "And did you do this of
your own will? Or ... Pardon me, I am afraid of seeming indiscreet
to you ... Perhaps at that time ... extreme necessity? ..."

"Not at all. Anna Markovna soaked me three times as much as it
would have cost in a student's dining room. I simply wanted to
live here a while on a somewhat nearer, closer footing, to enter
intimately into this little world, so to speak."

"A-ah! It seems I am beginning to understand!" beamed Yarchenko.
"Our new friend--pardon me for the little familiarity--is,
apparently, gathering material from life? And, perhaps, in a few
years we will have the pleasure of reading ..."

"A t-r-ragedy out of a brothel!" Boris Sobashnikov put in loudly,
like an actor.

While the reporter had been answering Yarchenko, Tamara quietly
got up from her place, walked around the table, and, bending down
over Sobashnikov, spoke in a whisper in his ear:

"Dearie, sweetie, you'd better not touch this gentleman. Honest to
God, it will be better for you, even."

"Wass that?" the student looked at her superciliously, fixing his
PINCE-NEZ with two spread fingers. "Is he your lover? Your pimp?"

"I swear by anything you want that not once in his life has he
stayed with any one of us. But, I repeat, don't pick on him."

"Why, yes! Why, of course!" retorted Sobashnikov, grimacing
scornfully. "He has such a splendid defense as the entire brothel.
And it's a sure thing that all the bouncers on Yamskaya are his
near friends and cronies."

"No, not that," retorted Tamara in a kind whisper. "Only he'll
take you by the collar and throw you out of the window, like a
puppy. I've already seen such an aerial flight. God forbid its
happening to anyone. It's disgraceful, and bad for the health."

"Get out of here, you filth!" yelled Sobashnikov, swinging his
elbow at her.

"I'm going, dearie," meekly answered Tamara, and walked away from
him with her light step.

Everybody for an instant turned toward the student.

"Behave yourself, barberry!" Lichonin threatened him with his
finger. "Well, well, go on," he begged the reporter; "all that
you're saying is so interesting."

"No, I'm not gathering anything," continued the reporter calmly
and seriously. "But the material here is in reality tremendous,
downright crushing, terrible ... And not at all terrible are the
loud phrases about the traffic in women's flesh, about the white
slaves, about prostitution being a corroding fester of large
cities, and so on, and so on ... an old hurdy-gurdy of which all
have tired! No, horrible are the everyday, accustomed trifles,
these business-like, daily, commercial reckonings, this thousand
year old science of amatory practice, this prosaic usage,
determined by the ages. In these unnoticeable nothings are
completely dissolved such feelings as resentment, humiliation,
shame. There remains a dry profession, a contract, an agreement, a
well-nigh honest petty trade, no better, no worse than, say, the
trade in groceries. Do you understand, gentlemen, that all the
horror is in just this, that there is no horror! Bourgeois work
days--and that is all. And also an after taste of an exclusive
educational institution, with its NAIVETE, harshness,
sentimentality and imitativeness."

"That's right," confirmed Lichonin, while the reporter continued,
gazing pensively into his glass:

"We read in the papers, in leading articles, various wailings of
anxious souls. And the women-physicians are also endeavouring in
this matter, and endeavouring disgustingly enough. 'Oh, dear,
regulation! Oh, dear, abolition! Oh, dear, live merchandise! A
condition of slavery! The mesdames, these greedy haeterae! These
heinous degenerates of humanity, sucking the blood of
prostitutes!' ... But with clamour you will scare no one and will
affect no one. You know, there's a little saying: much cry, little
wool. More awful than all awful words--a hundredfold more awful--
is some such little prosaic stroke or other as will suddenly knock
you all in a heap, like a blow on the forehead. Take even Simeon,
the porter here. It would seem, according to you, there is no
sinking lower--a bouncer in a brothel, a brute, almost certainly a
murderer, he plucks the prostitutes, gives them "black eyes," to
use a local expression--that is, just simply beats them. But, do
you know on what grounds he and I came together and became
friendly? On the magnificent details of the divine service of the
prelate, on the canon of the honest Andrew, pastor of Crete, on
the works of the most beatific father, John the Damascene. He is
religious--unusually so! I used to lead him on, and he would sing
to me with tears in his eyes: 'Come ye brethren, and we will give
the last kiss to him who has gone to his rest...' From the ritual
of the burial of laymen. No, just think: it is only in the Russian
soul alone that such contradictions may dwell together!"

"Yes. A fellow like that will pray, and pray, then cut a throat,
and then wash his hands and put a candle before an image," said
Ramses.

"Just so. I know of nothing more uncanny than this fusion of fully
sincere devoutness with an innate leaning toward crime. Shall I
confess to you? I, when I talk all alone to Simeon--and we talk
with each other long and leisurely, for hours--I experience at
moments a genuine terror. A superstitious terror! Just as though,
for instance, I am standing in the dusk upon a shaking little
board, bending over some dark, malodorous well, and just barely
distinguish how there, at the bottom, reptiles are stirring. And
yet, he is devout in a real way, and I am sure will some time join
the monks and will be a great faster and sayer of prayers, and the
devil knows how, in what monstrous fashion, a real religious
ecstasy will entwine in his soul with blasphemy, with scoffing at
sacred things, with some repulsive passion or other, with sadism
or something else of that nature!"

"However, you do not spare the object of your observations," said
Yarchenko, and carefully indicated the girls with his eyes.

"Eh, it's all the same. Our relations are cool now."

"How so?" asked Volodya Pavlov, who had caught the end of the
conversation.

"Just so ... It isn't even worth the telling..." smiled the
reporter evasively. "A trifle ... Let's have your glass here, Mr.
Yarchenko."

But the precipitate Niura, who could never keep her tongue behind
her teeth, suddenly shot oat in rapid patter:

"It's because Sergei Ivanich gave him one in the snout ... On
account of Ninka. A certain old man came to Ninka ... And stayed
for the night ... And Ninka had the flowers ... And the old man
was torturing her all the time ... So Ninka started crying and ran
away." [Footnote: The Russian expression is "the red flag."--
TRANS.]

"Drop it, Niura; it's boring," said Platonov with a wry face.

"Can it!" (leave off) ordered Tamara severely, in the jargon of
houses of prostitution.

But it was impossible to stop Niura, who had gotten a running
start.

"But Ninka says: 'I,' she says, 'won't stay with him for anything,
though you cut me all to pieces ... He,' she says, 'has made me
all wet with his spit.' Well, the old man complained to the
porter, to be sure, and the porter starts in to beat up Ninka, to
be sure. And Sergei Ivanich at this time was writing for me a
letter home, to the province, and when he heard that Ninka was
hollering..."

"Zoe, shut her mouth!" said Platonov.

"He just jumped up at once and ... app! ..." and Niura's torrent
instantly broke off, stopped up by Zoe's palm.

Everybody burst out laughing, only Boris Sobashnikov muttered
under cover of the noise with a contemptuous look:

"OH, CHEVALIER SANS PEUR ET SANS REPROCHE!"

He was already pretty far gone in drink, stood leaning against the
wall, in a provoking pose, and was nervously chewing a cigarette.

"Which Ninka is this?" asked Yarchenko with curiosity. "Is she
here?"

"No, she isn't here. Such a small, pug-nosed little girl. Naive
and very angry." The reporter suddenly and sincerely burst into
laughter. "Excuse me ... It's just so ... over my thoughts,"
explained he through laughter. "I recalled this old man very
vividly just now, as he was running along the corridor in fright,
having grabbed his outer clothing and shoes ... Such a respectable
ancient, with the appearance of an apostle, I even know where he
serves. Why, all of you know him. But the funniest of all was when
he, at last, felt himself out of danger in the drawing room. You
understand--he is sitting on a chair, putting on his pantaloons,
can't put his foot where it ought to go, by any means, and bawls
all over the house: 'It's an outrage! This is an abominable dive!
I'll show you up! ... To-morrow I'll give you twenty-four hours to
clear out! ... Do you know, this combination of pitiful
helplessness with the threatening cries was so killing that even
the gloomy Simeon started laughing ... Well, now, apropos of
Simeon ... I say, that life dumfounds, with its wondrous muddle
and farrago, makes one stand aghast. You can utter a thousand
sonorous words against souteneurs, but just such a Simeon you will
never think up. So diverse and motley is life! Or else take Anna
Markovna, the proprietress of this place. This blood-sucker,
hyena, vixen and so on ... is the tenderest mother imaginable. She
has one daughter--Bertha, she is now in the fifth grade of high
school. If you could only see how much careful attention, how much
tender care Anna Markovna expends that her daughter may not
somehow, accidentally, find out about her profession. And
everything is for Birdie, everything is for the sake of Birdie.
And she herself dare not even converse before her, is afraid of
her lexicon of a bawd and an erstwhile prostitute, looks into her
eyes, holds herself servilely, like an old servant, like a
foolish, doting nurse, like an old, faithful, mange-eaten poodle.
It is long since time for her to retire to rest, because she has
money, and because her occupation is both arduous and troublesome,
and because her years are already venerable. But no and no; one
more extra thousand is needed, and then more and more--everything
for Birdie. And so Birdie has horses, Birdie has an English
governess, Birdie is every year taken abroad, Birdie has diamonds
worth forty thousand--the devil knows whose they are, these
diamonds? And it isn't that I am merely convinced, but I know
well, that for the happiness of this same Birdie, nay, not even
for her happiness, but, let us suppose that Birdie gets a hangnail
on her little finger--well then, in order that this hangnail might
pass away--imagine for a second the possibility of such a state of
things!--Anna Markovna, without the quiver of an eyelash, will
sell into corruption our sisters and daughters, will infect all of
us and our sons with syphilis. What? A monster, you will say? But
I will say that she is moved by the same grand, unreasoning,
blind, egoistical love for which we call our mothers sainted
women."

"Go easy around the curves!" remarked Boris Sobashnikov through
his teeth.

"Pardon me: I was not comparing people, but merely generalizing on
the first source of emotion. I might have brought out as an
example the self-denying love of animal-mothers as well. But I see
that I have started on a tedious matter. Better let's drop it."

"No, you finish," protested Lichonin. "I feel that you have a
massive thought."

"And a very simple one. The other day a professor asked me if I am
not observing the life here with some literary aims. And all I
wanted to say was, that I can see, but precisely can not observe.
Here I have given you Simeon and the bawd for example. I do not
know myself why, but I feel that in them lurks some terrible,
insuperable actuality of life, but either to tell it, or to show
it, I can not. Here is necessary the great ability to take some
picayune trifle, an insignificant, paltry little stroke, and then
will result a dreadful truth, from which the reader, aghast, will
forget that his mouth is agape. People seek the terrible in words,
in cries, in gestures. Well, now, for example, I am reading a
description of some pogrom or of a slaughter in jail, or of a riot
being put down. Of course, the policemen are described, these
servants of arbitrariness, these lifeguards of
contemporaneousness, striding up to their knees in blood, or how
else do they write in such cases? Of course, it is revolting and
it hurts, and is disgusting, but all this is felt by the mind, and
not the heart. But here I am walking along Lebyazhia Street, and
see that a crowd has collected, a girl of five years in the
centre--she has lagged behind the mother and has strayed, or it
may be that the mother had abandoned her. And before the girl,
squatting down on his heels, is a roundsman. He is interrogating
her, how she is called, and where is she from, and how do they
call papa, and how do they call mamma. He has broken out into
sweat, the poor fellow, from the effort, the cap is at the back of
his neck, the whiskered face is such a kindly and woeful and
helpless one, while the voice is gentle, so gentle. At last, what
do you think? As the girl has become all excited, and has already
grown hoarse from tears, and is shy of everybody--he, this same
'roundsman on the beat,' stretches out two of his black, calloused
fingers, the index and the little, and begins to imitate a nanny
goat for the girl and reciting an appropriate nursery rhyme! ...
And so, when I looked upon this charming scene and thought that
half an hour later at the station house this same patrolman will
be beating with his feet the face and chest of a man whom he had
not till that time seen once, and whose crime he is entirely
ignorant of--then--you understand!--I began to feel inexpressibly
eerie and sad. Not with the mind, but the heart. Such a devilish
muddle is this life. Shall we drink some cognac, Lichonin?"

"What do you say to calling each other thou?" suddenly proposed
Lichonin.

"All right. Only, really, without any of this business of kissing,
now. Here's to your health, old man ... Or here is another
instance ... I read a certain French classic, describing the
thoughts and sensations of a man condemned to capital punishment.
He describes it all sonorously, powerfully, brilliantly, but I
read and ... well, there is no impression of any sort; neither
emotion nor indignation--just ENNUI. But then, within the last few
days I come across a brief newspaper notice of a murderer's
execution somewhere in France. The Procureur, who was present at
the last toilet of the criminal, sees that he is putting on his
shoes on his bare feet, and--the blockhead!--reminds him: 'What
about the socks?' But the other gives him a look and says, sort of
thoughtfully: 'Is it worth while?' Do you understand, these two
remarks, so very short, struck me like a blow on the skull! At
once all the horror and all the stupidity of unnatural death were
revealed to me ... Or here is something else about death ... A
certain friend of mine died, a captain in the infantry--a
drunkard, a vagabond, and the finest soul in the world. For some
reason we called him the Electrical Captain. I was in the
vicinity, and it fell to me to dress him for the last parade. I
took his uniform and began to attach the epaulettes to it. There's
a cord, you know, that's drawn through the shank of the epaulette
buttons, and after that the two ends of this cord are shoved
through two little holes under the collar, and on the inside--the
lining--are tied together. Well, I go through all this business,
and tie the cord with a slipknot, and, you know, the loop won't
come out, nohow--either it's too loosely tied, or else one end's
too short. I am fussing over this nonsense, and suddenly into my
head comes the most astonishingly simple thought, that it's far
simpler and quicker to tie it in a knot--for after all, it's all
the same, NO ONE IS GOING TO UNTIE IT. And immediately I felt
death with all my being. Until that time I had seen the captain's
eyes, grown glassy, had felt his cold forehead, and still somehow
had not sensed death to the full, but I thought of the knot--and I
was all transpierced, and the simple and sad realization of the
irrevocable, inevitable perishing of all our words, deeds, and
sensations, of the perishing of all the apparent world, seemed to
bow me down to the earth ... And I could bring forward a hundred
such small but staggering trifles ... Even, say, about what people
experienced in the war ... But I want to lead my thought up to one
thing. We all pass by these characteristic trifles indifferently,
like the blind, as though not seeing them scattered about under
our feet. But an artist will come, and he will look over them
carefully, and he will pick them up. And suddenly he will so
skillfully turn in the sun a minute bit of life that we shall all
cry out: 'Oh, my God! But I myself--myself--have seen this with my
own eyes. Only it simply did not enter my head to turn my close
attention upon it.' But our Russian artists of the word--the most
conscientious and sincere artists in the whole world--for some
reason have up to this time passed over prostitution and the
brothel. Why? Really, it is difficult for me to answer that.
Perhaps because of squeamishness, perhaps because of
pusillanimity, out of fear of being signalized as a pornographic
writer; finally, from the apprehension that our gossiping
criticism will identify the artistic work of the writer with his
personal life and will start rummaging in his dirty linen. Or
perhaps they can find neither the time, nor the self-denial, nor
the self-possession to plunge in head first into this life and to
watch it right up close, without prejudice, without sonorous
phrases, without a sheepish pity, in all its monstrous simplicity
and every-day activity. Oh, what a tremendous, staggering and
truthful book would result!"

"But they do write!" unwillingly remarked Ramses.

"They do write," wearily repeated Platonov in the same tone as he.
"But it is all either a lie, or theatrical effects for children of
tender years, or else a cunning symbolism, comprehensible only to
the sages of the future. But the life itself no one as yet has
touched. One big writer--a man with a crystal-pure soul and a
remarkable talent for delineation--once approached this theme,
[Footnote: The reference here is most probably to Chekhov.--
TRANS.] and then all that could catch the eye of an outsider was
reflected in his soul, as in a wondrous mirror. But he could not
decide to lie to and to frighten people. He only looked upon the
coarse hair of the porter, like that of a dog, and reflected:
'But, surely, even he had a mother.' He passed with his wise,
exact gaze over the faces of the prostitutes and impressed them on
his mind. But that which he did not know he did not dare to write.
It is remarkable, that this same writer, enchanting with his
honesty and truthfulness, has looked at the moujik as well, more
than once. But he sensed that both the tongue and the turn of
mind, as well as the soul of the people, were for him dark and
incomprehensible ... And he, with an amazing tact, modestly went
around the soul of the people, but refracted all his fund of
splendid observation through the eyes of townsfolk. I have brought
this up purposely. With us, you see, they write about detectives,
about lawyers, about inspectors of the revenue, about pedagogues,
about attorneys, about the police, about officers, about sensual
ladies, about engineers, about baritones--and really, by God,
altogether well--cleverly, with finesse and talent. But, after
all, all these people, are rubbish, and their life is not life but
some sort of conjured up, spectral, unnecessary delirium of world
culture. But there are two singular realities--ancient as humanity
itself: the prostitute and the moujik. And about them we know
nothing save some tinsel, gingerbread, debauched depictions in
literature. I ask you: what has Russian literature extracted out
of all the nightmare of prostitution? Sonechka Marmeladova alone.
[Footnote: The heroine of Dostoievsky's "Crime and Punishment."
--Trans.] What has it given us about the moujik save odious, false,
nationalistic pastorals? One, altogether but one, but then, in
truth, the greatest work in all the world--a staggering tragedy,
the truthfulness of which takes the breath away and makes the hair
stand on end. You know what I am speaking of ..."

"'The little claw is sunk in...'" [Footnote: "The little claw is
sunk in, the whole bird is bound to perish"--a folk proverb used
by Tolstoi as a sub-title to his "The Power of Darkness."--Trans.]
quietly prompted Lichonin.

"Yes," answered the reporter, and looked kindly at the student
with gratefulness.

"But as regards Sonechka--why, this is an abstract type," remarked
Yarchenko with assurance. "A psychological scheme, so to speak
..."

Platonov, who up to now had been speaking as though unwillingly,
at a slow rate, suddenly grew heated:

"A hundred times have I heard this opinion, a hundred times! And
it is entirely an untruth. Underneath the coarse and obscene
profession, underneath the foulest oaths--about one's mother--
underneath the drunken, hideous exterior--Sonechka Marmeladova
still lives! The fate of the Russian prostitute--oh, what a
tragic, piteous, bloody, ludicrous and stupid path it is! Here
everything has been juxtaposed: the Russian God, Russian breadth
and unconcern, Russian despair in a fall, Russian lack of culture,
Russian naivete, Russian patience, Russian shamelessness. Why, all
of them, whom you take into bedrooms,--look upon them, look upon
them well,--why, they are all children; why, each of them is but
eleven years old. Fate has thrust them upon prostitution and since
then they live in some sort of a strange, fairy-like, toy
existence, without developing, without being enriched by
experience, naive, trusting, capricious, not knowing what they
will say and do half an hour later--altogether like children. This
radiant and ludicrous childishness I have seen in the very oldest
wenches, fallen as low as low can be, broken-winded and crippled
like a cabby's nags. And never does this impotent pity, this
useless commiseration toward human suffering die within them ...
For example ..."

Platonov looked over all the persons sitting with a slow gaze, and
suddenly, waving his hand despondently, said in a tired voice:

"However ... The devil take it all! To-day I have spoken enough
for ten years ... And all of it to no purpose."

"But really, Sergei Ivanich, why shouldn't you try to describe all
this yourself?" asked Yarchenko. "Your attention is so vitally
concentrated on this question."

"I did try!" answered Platonov with a cheerless smile. "But
nothing came of it. I started writing and at once became entangled
in various 'whats,' 'which's,' 'was's.' The epithets prove flat.
The words grow cold on the page. It's all a cud of some sort. Do
you know, Terekhov was here once, while passing through ... You
know ... The well-known one ... I came to him and started in
telling him lots and lots about the life here, which I do not tell
you for fear of boring you. I begged him to utilize my material.
He heard me out with great attention, and this is what he said,
literally: 'Don't get offended, Platonov, if I tell you that
there's almost not a single person of those I have met during my
life, who wouldn't thrust themes for novels and stories upon me,
or teach me as to what ought to be written up. That material which
you have just communicated to me is truly unencompassable in its
significance and weightiness. But what shall I do with it? In
order to write a colossal book such as the one you have in mind,
the words of others do not suffice--even though they be the most
exact--even observations, made with a little note-book and a bit
of pencil, do not suffice. One must grow accustomed to this life,
without being cunningly wise, without any ulterior thoughts of
writing. Then a terrific book will result.'

"His words discouraged me and at the same time gave me wings.
Since that time I believe, that now, not soon--after fifty years
or so--but there will come a writer of genius, and precisely a
Russian one, who will absorb within himself all the burdens and
all the abominations of this life and will cast them forth to us
in the form of simple, fine, and deathlessly-caustic images. And
we shall all say: 'Why, now, we, ourselves, have seen and known
all this, but we could not even suppose that this is so horrible!'
In this coming artist I believe with all my heart."

"Amen!" said Lichonin seriously. "Let us drink to him."

"But, honest to God," suddenly declared Little Manka, "If some one
would only write the truth about the way we live here, miserable
w--that we are..."

There was a knock at the door, and at once Jennie entered in her
resplendent orange dress.





CHAPTER X.


She greeted all the men without embarrassment, with the
independent bearing of the first personage in the house, and sat
down near Sergei Ivanich, behind his chair. She had just gotten
free from that same German in the uniform of the benevolent
organization, who early in the evening had made Little White Manka
his choice, but had afterwards changed her, at the recommendation
of the housekeeper, for Pasha. But the provoking and self-assured
beauty of Jennie must have smitten deeply his lecherous heart,
for, having prowled some three hours through certain beer
emporiums and restaurants, and having there gathered courage, he
had again returned into the house of Anna Markovna, had waited
until her time-guest--Karl Karlovich, from the optical store--had
gone away from Jennie, and had taken her into a room.

To the silent question in Tamara's eyes Jennie made a wry face of
disgust, shivered with her back and nodded her head affirmatively.

"He's gone... Brrr! ..."

Platonov was looking at Jennie with extraordinary attentiveness.
He distinguished her from the rest of the girls and almost
respected her for her abrupt, refractory, and impudently mocking
character. And now, turning around occasionally, by her flaming,
splendid eyes, by the vividly and unevenly glowing unhealthy red
of her cheeks, by the much bitten parched lips, he felt that her
great, long ripening rancour was heavily surging within the girl
and suffocating her. And it was then that he thought (and
subsequently often recalled this) that he had never yet seen
Jennie so radiantly beautiful as on this night. He also noticed,
that all the men present in the private cabinet, with the
exception of Lichonin, were looking at her--some frankly, others
by stealth and as though in passing--with curiosity and furtive
desire. The beauty of this woman, together with the thought of her
altogether easy accessibility, at any minute, agitated their
imagination.

"There's something working upon you, Jennie," said Platonov
quietly.

Caressingly, she just barely drew her fingers over his arm.

"Don't pay any attention. Just so ... our womanish affairs ... It
won't be interesting to you."

But immediately, turning to Tamara, she passionately and rapidly
began saying something in an agreed jargon, which presented a wild
mixture out of the Hebrew, Tzigani and Roumanian tongues and the
cant words of thieves and horse-thieves.

"Don't try to put anything over on the fly guy, the fly guy is
next," Tamara cut her short and with a smile indicated the
reporter with her eyes.

Platonov had, in fact, understood. Jennie was telling with
indignation that during this day and night, thanks to the influx
of a cheap public, the unhappy Pashka had been taken into a room
more than ten times--and all by different men. Only just now she
had had a hysterical fit, ending in a faint. And now, scarcely
having brought Pashka back to consciousness and braced her up on
valerian drops in a glass of spirits, Emma Edwardovna had again
sent her into the drawing room. Jennie had attempted to take the
part of her comrade, but the house-keeper had cursed the
intercessor out and had threatened her with punishment.

"What is it all about?" asked Yarchenko in perplexity, raising
high his eyebrows.

"Don't trouble yourself ... nothing out of the way..." answered
Jennie in a still agitated voice. "Just so ... our little family
trifles ... Sergei Ivanich, may I have some of your wine?"

She poured out half a glass for herself and drank the cognac off
at a draught, distending her thin nostrils wide.

Platonov got up in silence and went toward the door.

"It's not worth while, Sergei Ivanich. Drop it..." Jennie stopped
him.

"Oh no, why not?" objected the reporter. "I shall do a very simple
and innocent thing, take Pasha here, and if need be--pay for her,
even. Let her lie down here for a while on the divan and rest,
even though a little ... Niura, run for a pillow quick!"

Scarcely had the door shut behind his broad, ungainly figure in
its gray clothes, when Boris Sobashnikov at once commenced
speaking with a contemptuous bitterness:

"Gentlemen, what the devil for have we dragged into our company
this peach off the street? We must needs tie up with all sorts of
riff-raff? The devil knows what he is--perhaps he's even a dinny?
Who can vouch for him? And you're always like that, Lichonin."

"It isn't Lichonin but I who introduced him to everybody,"' said
Ramses. "I know him for a fully respectable person and a good
companion."

"Eh! Nonsense! A good companion to drink at some one else's
expense. Why, don't you see for yourselves that this is the most
ordinary type of habitue attached to a brothel, and, most
probably, he is simply the pimp here, to whom a percentage is paid
for the entertainment into which he entices the visitors."

"Leave off, Borya. It's foolish," remarked Yarchenko
reproachfully.

But Borya could not leave off. He had an unfortunate peculiarity--
intoxication acted neither upon his legs nor his tongue, but put
him in a morose, touchy frame of mind and egged him on into
quarrels. And Platonov had already for a long time irritated him
with his negligently sincere, assured and serious bearing, so
little suitable to the private cabinet of a brothel. But the
seeming indifference with which the reporter let pass the
malicious remarks which he interposed into the conversation
angered Sobashnikov still more.

"And then, the tone in which he permits himself to speak in our
company!" Sobashnikov continued to seethe. "A certain aplomb,
condescension, a professorial tone ... The scurvy penny-a-liner!
The free-lunch grafter!"

Jennie, who had all the time been looking intently at the student,
gaily and maliciously flashing with her sparkling dark eyes,
suddenly began to clap her hands.

"That's the way! Bravo, little student! Bravo, bravo, bravo! ...
That's the way, give it to him good! ... Really, what sort of a
disgrace is this! When he'll come, now, I'll repeat everything to
him."

"I--if you please! A--as much as you like!" Sobashnikov drawled
out like an actor, making superciliously squeamish creases about
his mouth. "I shall repeat the very same things myself."

"There's a fine fellow, now,--I love you for that!" exclaimed
Jennie joyously and maliciously, striking her fist on the table.
"You can tell an owl at once by its flight, a good man by his
snot!"

Little White Manya and Tamara looked at Jennie with wonder, but,
noting the evil little lights leaping in her eyes and her
nervously quivering nostrils, they both understood and smiled.

Little White Manya, laughing, shook her head reproachfully. Jennie
always had such a face when her turbulent soul sensed that a
scandal was nearing which she herself had brought on.

"Don't get your back up, Borinka," said Lichonin. "Here all are
equal."

Niura came with a pillow and laid it down on the divan.

"And what's that for?" Sobashnikov yelled at her. Git! take it
away at once. This isn't a lodging house."

"Now, leave her be, honey. What's that to you?" retorted Jennie in
a sweet voice and hid the pillow behind Tamara's back. "Wait,
sweetie, I'd better sit with you for a while."

She walked around the table, forced Boris to sit on a chair, and
herself got up on his knees. Twining his neck with her arm, she
pressed her lips to his mouth, so long and so vigorously that the
student caught his breath. Right up close to his eyes he saw the
eyes of the woman--strangely large, dark, luminous, indistinct and
unmoving. For a quarter of a second or so, for an instant, it
seemed to him that in these unliving eyes was impressed an
expression of keen, mad hate; and the chill of terror, some vague
premonition of an ominous, inevitable calamity flashed through the
student's brain. With difficulty tearing the supple arms of Jennie
away from him, and pushing her away, he said, laughing, having
turned red and breathing hard:

"There's a temperament for you! Oh, you Messalina Paphnutievna!
... They call you Jennka, I think? You're a good-looking little
rascal."

Platonov returned with Pasha. Pasha was pitiful and revolting to
look at. Her face was pale, with, a bluish cast as though the
blood had run off; the glazed, half-closed eyes were smiling with
a faint, idiotic smile; the parted lips seemed to resemble two
frayed, red, wet rags, and she walked with a sort of timid,
uncertain step, just as though with one foot she were making a
large step, and with the other a small one. She walked with
docility up to the divan and with docility laid her head down on
the pillow, without ceasing to smile faintly and insanely. Even at
a distance it was apparent that she was cold.

"Pardon me, gentlemen, I am going to undress," said Lichonin, and
taking his coat off he threw it over the shoulders of the
prostitute. "Tamara, give her chocolate and wine."

Boris Sobashnikov again stood up picturesquely in the corner, in a
leaning position, one leg in front of the other and his head held
high. Suddenly he spoke amid the general silence, addressing
Platonov directly, in a most foppish tone:

"Eh ... Listen ... what's your name? ... This, then, must be your
mistress? Eh?" And with the tip of his boot he pointed in the
direction of the recumbent Pasha.

"Wha-at?" asked Platonov in a drawl, knitting his eyebrows.

"Or else you are her lover--it's all one ... What do they call
this duty here? Well, now, these same people for whom the women
embroider shirts and with whom they divide their honest earnings?
... Eh? ..."

Platonov looked at him with a heavy, intent gaze through his
narrowed lids.

"Listen," he said quietly, in a hoarse voice, slowly and
ponderously separating his words. "This isn't the first time that
you're trying to pick a quarrel with me. But, in the first place,
I see that despite your sober appearance you are exceedingly and
badly drunk; and, in the second place, I spare you for the sake of
your comrades. However, I warn you, that if you think of talking
that way to me again, take your eyeglasses off."

"What's this stuff?" exclaimed Boris, raising his shoulders high
and snorting through his nose. "What eyeglasses? Why eyeglasses?"
But mechanically, with two extended fingers, he fixed the bow of
the PINCE-NEZ on the bridge of his nose.

"Because I'm going to hit you, and the pieces may get in your
eye," said the reporter unconcernedly.

Despite the unexpectedness of such a turn of the quarrel, nobody
started laughing. Only Little White Manka oh'd in astonishment and
clapped her hands. Jennie, with avid impatience, shifted her eyes
from one to the other.

"Well, now! I'll give you change back myself so's you won't like
it!" roughly, altogether boyishly, cried out Sobashnikov. "Only
it's not worth while mussing one's hands with every ..." he wanted
to add a new invective, but decided not to, "with every ... And
besides, comrades, I do not intend to stay here any longer. I am
too well brought up to be hail-fellow-well-met with such persons."

He rapidly and haughtily walked to the door.

It was necessary for him to pass almost right up against Platonov,
who, out of the corner of his eye, animal-like, was watching his
every movement. For a moment in the mind of the student flashed a
desire to strike Platonov unexpectedly, from the side, and jump
away--the comrades would surely part them and not allow a fight.
But immediately, almost without looking at the reporter, with some
sort of deep, unconscious instinct, he saw and sensed those broad
hands, lying quietly on the table, that obdurately bowed head with
its broad forehead, and all the ungainly, alert, powerful body of
his foe, so neligently hunched up and spread out on the chair, but
ready at any second for a quick and terrific blow. And Sobashnikov
walked out into the corridor, loudly banging the door after him.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," said Jennie after him in a mocking
patter. "Tamarochka, pour me out some more cognac."

But the lanky student Petrovsky got up from his place and
considered it necessary to defend Sobashnikov.

"Just as you wish, gentlemen; this is a matter of your personal
view, but out of principle I go together with Boris. Let him be
not right and so on, we can express censure to him in our own
intimate company, but when an insult has been rendered our
comrade--I can't remain here. I am going away."

"Oh, my God!" And Lichonin nervously and vexedly scratched his
temple. "Boris behaved himself all the time in the highest degree
vulgarly, rudely and foolishly. What sort of corporate honour do
you think this is? A collective walk-out from editorial offices,
from political meetings, from brothels. We aren't officers to
screen the foolishness of each comrade."

"All the same, just as you wish, but I am going away out of a
sense of solidarity!" said Petrovsky importantly and walked out.

"May the earth be as down upon you!" Jennie sent after him.

But how tortuous and dark the ways of the human soul! Both of
them--Sobashnikov as well as Petrovsky--acted in their indignation
rather sincerely, but the first only half so, while the second
only a quarter in all. Sobashnikov, despite his intoxication and
wrath, still had knocking at the door of his mind the alluring
thought that now it would be more convenient and easier before his
comrades to call out Jennka on the quiet and to be alone with her.
While Petrovsky, with exactly the same aim, went after Sobashnikov
in order to make a loan of three roubles from him. In the general
drawing room they made things up between them, and after ten
minutes Zociya, the housekeeper, shoved in her little, squinting,
pink, cunning face through the half-open door of the private room.

"Jennechka," she called, "go, they have brought your linen, go
count it. And you, Niura, the actor begs to come for just a
minute, to drink some champagne. He's with Henrietta and Big
Manya."

The precipitate and incongruous quarrel of Platonov and
Sobashnikov long served as a subject of conversation. The
reporter, in cases like this, always felt shame, uneasiness,
regret and the torments of conscience. And despite the fact that
all those who remained were on his side, he was speaking with
weariness in his voice:

"By God, gentlemen! I'll go away, best of all. Why should I
disrupt your circle? We were both at fault. I'll go away. Don't
bother about the bill. I've already paid Simeon, when I was going
after Pasha."

Lichonin suddenly rumpled up his hair and stood up

"Oh, no, the devil take it! I'll go and drag him here. Upon my
word of honour, they're both fine fellows--Boris as well as Vaska.
But they're young yet, and bark at their own tails. I'm going
after them, and I warrant that Boris will apologize."

He went away, but came back after five minutes.

"They repose," said he, sombrely, and made a hopeless gesture with
his hand. "Both of them."





CHAPTER XI.


At this moment Simeon walked into the cabinet with a tray upon
which stood two goblets of a bubbling golden wine and lay a large
visiting card.

"May I ask which of you here might be Mister Gavrila Petrovich
Yarchenko?" he said, looking over all those sitting.

"I," responded Yarchenko.

"If youse please. The actor gent sent this."

Yarchenko took the visiting card and read aloud:

Eumenii Poluectovich

EGMONT--LAVRETZKI

Dramatic Artist of Metropolitan Theatres

"It's remarkable," said Volodya Pavlov, "that all the Russian
Garricks bear such queer names, on the style of Chrysantov,
Thetisov, Mamontov and Epimhakov."

"And besides that, the best known of them must needs either speak
thickly, or lisp, or stammer," added the reporter.

"Yes, but most remarkable of all is the fact that I do not at all
have the honour of knowing this artist of the metropolitan
theatres. However, there's something else written on the reverse
of this card. Judging by the handwriting, it was written by a man
greatly drunk and little lettered.

"'I dreenk'--not drink, but dreenk," explained Yarchenko. "'I
dreenk to the health of the luminary of Russian science, Gavrila
Petrovich Yarchenko, whom I saw by chance when I was passing by
through the collidor. Would like to clink glasses together
personally. If you do not remember, recollect the National
Theatre, Poverty Is No Disgrace, and the humble artist who played
African.' "Yes, that's right," said Yarchenko. "Once, somehow,
they saddled me with the arrangement of this benefit performance
in the National Theatre. Also, there dimly glimmers some clean-
shaven haughty visage, but ... What shall it be, gentlemen?"

Lichonin answered good-naturedly:

"Why, drag him here. Perhaps he's funny."

"And you?" the sub-professor turned to Platonov.

"It's all the same to me. I know him slightly. At first he'll
shout: 'KELLNER, champagne!' then burst into tears about his wife,
who is an angel, then deliver a patriotic speech and finally raise
a row over the bill, but none too loudly. All in all he's
entertaining."

"Let him come," said Volodya, from behind the shoulder of Katie,
who was sitting on his knees, swinging her legs.

"And you, Veltman?"

"What?" the student came to with a start. He was sitting on the
divan with his back to his companions, near the reclining Pasha,
bending over her, and already for a long time, with the
friendliest appearance of sympathy, had been stroking her, now on
the shoulder, now on the hair at the nape of the neck, while she
was smiling at him with her shyly shameless and senselessly
passionate smile through half-closed and trembling eyelashes.
"What? What's it all about? Oh yes,--is it all right to let the
actor in? I've nothing against it. Please do ..."

Yarchenko sent an invitation through Simeon, and the actor came
and immediately commenced the usual actor's play. In the door he
paused, in his long frock coat, shining with its silk lapels, with
a glistening opera hat, which he held with his arm in the middle
of his chest, like an actor portraying in the theatre an elderly
worldly lion or a bank director. And approximately these persons
he was inwardly picturing to himself.

"May I be permitted, gentlemen, to intrude into your intimate
company?" he asked in an unctuous, kindly voice, with a half-bow
done somewhat to one side.

They asked him in, and he began to introduce himself. Shaking
hands, he stuck out his elbow forward and raised it so high that
the hand proved to be far lower. Now it was no longer a bank
director, but such a clever, splendid fellow, a sportsman and a
rake of the golden youths. But his face--with rumpled, wild
eyebrows and with denuded lids without lashes--was the vulgar,
harsh and low face of a typical alcoholic, libertine, and pettily
cruel man. Together with him came two of his ladies: Henrietta
the eldest girl in years in the establishment of Anna Markovna,
experienced, who had seen everything and had grown accustomed to
everything, like an old horse on the tether of a threshing
machine, the possessor of a thick bass, but still a handsome
woman; and Big Manka, or Manka the Crocodile. Henrietta since
still the preceding night had not parted from the actor, who had
taken her from the house to a hotel.

Having seated himself alongside of Yarchenko, he straight off
began to play a new role--he became something on the order of an
old good soul of a landed proprietor, who had at one time been at
a university himself, and now can not look upon the students
without a quiet, fatherly emotion.

"Believe me, gentlemen, that one's soul rests from all these
worldly squabbles in the midst of youth," he was saying, imparting
to his depraved and harsh face an actor-like, exaggerated and
improbable expression of being moved. "This faith in a high ideal,
these honest impulses! ... What can be loftier and purer than our
Russian students as a body? ... KELLNER! Chompa-a-agne!" he yelled
deafeningly all of a sudden, and dealt a heavy blow on the table
with his fist.

Lichonin and Yarchenka did not wish to remain in debt to him. A
spree began. God knows in what manner Mishka the Singer and Nicky
the Book-keeper soon found themselves in the cabinet, and at once
began singing in their galloping voices:

    "They fe-e-e-el the tru-u-u-uth,
    Come thou daw-aw-aw-awning quicker ..."

There also appeared Roly-Poly, who had awakened. Letting his head
drop touchingly to one side and having made little narrowed,
lachrymose, sweet eyes in his wrinkled old face of a Don Quixote,
he was speaking in a persuasively begging tone:

"Gentlemen students ... you ought to treat a little old man. I
love education, by God! ... Allow me!"

Lichonin was glad to see everybody, but Yarchenko in the
beginning--until the champagne had mounted to his head--only
raised high his small, short eyebrows with a timorous, wondering
and naive air. It suddenly became crowded, smoky, noisy and close
in the cabinet. Simeon, with rattling, closed the blinds with
bolts on the outside. The women, just having gotten done with a
visit or in the interim between dances, walked into the room, sat
on somebody's knees, smoked, sang disjointedly, drank wine, kissed
and again went away, and again came. The clerks of Kereshkovsky,
offended because the damsels bestowed more attention upon the
cabinet than the drawing room, did start a row and tried to enter
into a provoking explanation with the students, but Simeon in a
moment quelled them with two or three authoritative words, thrown
out as though in passing.

Niura came back from her room and a little later Petrovsky
followed her. Petrovsky with an extremely serious air declared
that he had been walking on the street all this time, thinking
over the incident which had taken place and in the end had come to
the conclusion that comrade Boris was in reality not in the right,
but that there also was a circumstance in extenuation of his
fault--intoxication. Also, Jennie came later, but alone--
Sobashnikov had fallen asleep in her room. The actor proved to
have no end of talents. He very faithfully imitated the buzzing of
a fly which an intoxicated man is catching on a window-pane, and
the sounds of a saw; drolly performed, standing with his face in
the corner, the conversation of a nervous lady over the telephone;
imitated the singing of a phonograph record, and in the end, with
exceeding likeness to life, showed a little Persian lad with a
little trained monkey. Holding on with his hand to an imaginary
small chain and at the same time baring his teeth, squatting like
a monkey, winking his eyelids often, and scratching now his
posteriors, now the hair on his head, he sang through his nose, in
a monotonous and sad voice, distorting the words:

    "The i-young cissack to the war has went,
     The i-young ladee underneath the fence lies
       spraw-aw-ling.
     AINA, AINA, AI-NA-NA-NA, AI-NA NA-NA-NA."

In conclusion he took Little White Manka in his arms, wrapped her
up in the skirts of his frock and, stretching out his hand and
making a tearful face, began to nod his head, bent to one side, as
is done by little swarthy, dirty, oriental lads who roam over all
Russia in long, old, soldiers' overcoats, with bared chest of a
bronze colour, holding a coughing, moth-eaten little monkey in
their bosom.

"And who may you be?" severely asked fat Kate, who knew and loved
this joke.

"Me Serbian, lady-y-y," piteously moaned the actor through his
nose. "Give me somethin', lady-y-y."

"And what do they call your little monkey?"

"Matreshka-a-a ... Him 'ungry-y-y, lady ... him want eat..."

"And have you got a passport?"

"We Serbia-a-an. Gimme something lady-y-y..."

The actor proved not superfluous on the whole. He created at once
a great deal of noise and raised the spirits of the company, which
were beginning to be depressing. And every minute he cried out in
a stentorian voice:

"KELLNER! Chompa-a-agne!"--although Simeon, who was accustomed to
his manner paid very little attention to these cries.

There began a truly Russian hubbub, noisy and senseless. The rosy,
flaxen-haired, pleasing Tolpygin was playing LA SEGUIDILLE from
CARMEN on the piano, while Roly-Poly was dancing a Kamarinsky
peasant dance to its tune. His narrow shoulders hunched up,
twisted all to one side, the fingers of his hanging hands widely
spread, he intricately hopped on one spot from one long, thin leg
to the other, then suddenly letting out a piercing grunt, would
throw himself upward and shout out in time to his wild dance:

    "Ugh! Dance on, Matthew,
     Don't spare your boots, you! ..."

"Eh, for one stunt like that a quartern of brandy isn't enough!"
he would add, shaking his long, graying hair.

"They fee-ee-eel! the tru-u-u-uth!" roared the two friends,
raising with difficulty their underlids, grown heavy, beneath
dull, bleary eyes.

The actor commenced to tell obscene anecdotes, pouring them out as
from a bag, and the women squealed from delight, bent in two from
laughter and threw themselves against the backs of their chairs.
Veltman, who had long been whispering with Pasha, inconspicuously,
in the hubbub, slipped out of the cabinet, while a few minutes
after him Pasha also went away, smiling with her quiet, insane and
bashful smile.

But all of the remaining students as well, save Lichonin, one
after the other, some on the quiet, some under one pretext or
another, vanished from the cabinet and did not return for long
periods. Volodya Pavlov experienced a desire to look at the
dancing; Tolpygin's head began to ache badly, and he asked Tamara
to lead him somewhere where he might wash up; Petrovski, having
"touched" Lichonin for three roubles on the quiet, went out into
the corridor and only from there despatched the housekeeper Zociya
for Little White Manka. Even the prudent and fastidious Ramses
could not cope with that spicy feeling which to-day's strange,
vivid and unwholesome beauty of Jennie excited in him. It proved
that he had some important, undeferrable business this morning; it
was necessary to go home and snatch a bit of sleep if only for a
couple of hours. But, having told good-bye to his companions, he,
before going out of the cabinet, rapidly and with deep
significance pointed the door out to Jennie with his eyes. She
understood, slowly, scarcely perceptibly, lowered her eyelashes as
a sign of consent, and, when she again raised them, Platonov, who
almost without looking had seen this silent dialogue, was struck
by that expression of malice and menace in her eyes which she sped
the back of the departing Ramses. Having waited for five minutes
she got up, said "Excuse me, I'll be right back," and went out,
swinging her short orange skirt.

"Well, now? Is it your turn, Lichonin?" asked the reporter
banteringly.

"No, brother, you're mistaken!" said Lichonin and clacked his
tongue. "And I'm not doing it out of conviction or on principle,
either ... No! I, as an anarchist, proclaim the gospel that the
worse things are, the better ... But, fortunately, I am a gambler
and spend all my temperament on gaming; on that account simple
squeamishness speaks louder within me than this same unearthly
feeling. But it's amazing our thoughts coincided. I just wanted to
ask you about the same thing."

"I--no. Sometimes, if I become very much tired out, I sleep here
over night. I take from Isaiah Savvich the key to his little room
and sleep on the divan. But all the girls here are already used to
the fact that I am a being of the third sex."

"And really ... never? ..."

"Never."

"Well, what's right is right!" exclaimed Nhira. "Sergei Ivanich is
like a holy hermit."

"Previously, some five years ago, I experienced this also,"
continued Platonov. "But, do you know, it's really too tedious and
disgusting. Something on the nature of these flies which the actor
gentleman just represented. They're stuck together on the window
sill, and then in some sort of fool wonder scratch their backs
with their little hind legs and fly apart forever. And to play at
love here? ... Well, for that I'm no hero out of their sort of
novel. I'm not handsome, am shy with women, uneasy, and polite.
While here they thirst for savage passions, bloody jealousy,
tears, poisonings, beatings, sacrifices,--in a word, hysterical
romanticism. And it's easy to understand why. The heart of woman
always wants love, while they are told of love every day with
various sour, drooling words. Involuntarily one wants pepper in
one's love. One no longer wants words of passion, but tragically-
passionate deeds. And for that reason thieves, murderers,
souteners and other riff-raff will always be their lovers."

"And most important of all," added Platonov, "that would at once
spoil for me all the friendly relations which have been so well
built up."

"Enough of joking!" incredulously retorted Lichonin. "Then what
compels you to pass days and nights here? Were you a writer--it
would be a different matter. It's easy to find an explanation;
well, you're gathering types or something ... observing life ...
After the manner of that German professor who lived for three
years with monkeys, in order to study closely their language and
manners. But you yourself said that you don't indulge in writing?"

"It isn't that I don't indulge, but I simply don't know how--I
can't."

"We'll write that down. Now let's suppose another thing--that you
come here as an apostle of a better, honest life, in the nature of
a, now, saviour of perishing souls. You know, as in the dawn of
Christianity certain holy fathers instead of standing on a column
for thirty years or living in a cave in the woods, went to the
market places, into houses of mirth, to the harlots and
scaramuchios. But you aren't inclined that way."

"I'm not."

"Then why, the devil take it, do you hang around here? I can see
very well that a great deal here is revolting and oppressive and
painful to your own self. For example, this fool quarrel with
Boris or this flunky who beats a woman, and--, in general, the
constant contemplation of every kind of filth, lust, bestiality,
vulgarity, drunkenness. Well, now, since you say so--I believe
that you don't give yourself up to lechery. But then, still more
incomprehensible to me is your MODUS VIVENDI, to express myself in
the style of leading articles."

The reporter did not answer at once:

"You see," he began speaking slowly, with pauses, as though for
the first time lending ear to his thoughts and weighing them. "You
see, I'm attracted and interested in this life by its ... how
shall I express it? ... its fearful, stark truth. Do you
understand, it's as though all the conventional coverings were
ripped off it. There is no falsehood, no hypocrisy, no
sanctimoniousness, there are no compromises of any sort, neither
with public opinion, nor with the importunate authority of our
forefathers, nor with one's own conscience. No illusions of any
kind, nor any kind of embellishments! Here she is--'I! A public
woman, a common vessel, a cloaca for the drainage of the city's
surplus lust. Come to me any one who wills--thou shalt meet no
denial, therein is my service. But for a second of this sensuality
in haste--thou shalt pay in money, revulsion, disease and
ignominy.' And that is all. There is not a single phase of human
life where the basic main truth should shine with such a
monstrous, hideous, stark clearness, without any shade of human
prevarication or self-whitewashing."

"Oh, I don't know! These women lie like the very devil. You just
go and talk with her a bit about her first fall. She'll spin you
such a yarn!"

"Well, don't you ask then. What business is that of yours? But
even if they do lie, they lie altogether like children. But then,
you know yourself that children are the foremost, the most
charming fibsters, and at the same time the sincerest people on
earth. And it's remarkable, that both they and the others--that
is, both prostitutes and children--lie only to us--men--and grown-
ups. Among themselves they don't lie--they only inspiredly
improvise. But they lie to us because we ourselves demand this of
them, because we clamber into their souls, altogether foreign to
us, with our stupid tactics and questionings, because they regard
us in secret as great fools and senseless dissemblers. But if you
like, I shall right now count off on my fingers all the occasions
when a prostitute is sure to lie, and you yourself will be
convinced that man incites her to lying."

"Well, well, we shall see." "First: she paints herself
mercilessly, at times even in detriment to herself. Why? Because
every pimply military cadet, who is so distressed by his sexual
maturity that he grows stupid in the spring, like a wood-cock on a
drumming-log; or some sorry petty government clerk or other from
the department of the parish, the husband of a pregnant woman and
the father of nine infants--why, they both come here not at all
with the prudent and simple purpose of leaving here the surplus of
their passion. He, the good for nothing, has come to enjoy
himself; he needs beauty, d'you see--aesthete that he is! But all
these girls, these daughters of the simple, unpretentious, great
Russian people--how do they regard aesthetics? 'What's sweet,
that's tasty; what's red, that's handsome.' And so, there you are,
receive, if you please, a beauty of antimony, white lead and
rouge.

"That's one. Secondly, his desire for beauty isn't enough for this
resplendent cavalier--no, he must in addition be served with a
similitude of love, so that from his caresses there should kindle
in the woman this same 'fa-hire of in-sane pahass-ssion!' which is
sung about In idiotical ballads. Ah! Then THAT is what you want?
There y'are! And the woman lies to him with countenance, voice,
sighs, moans, movements of the body. And even he himself in the
depths of his soul knows about this professional deception, but--
go along with you!--still deceives himself: 'Ah, what a handsome
man I am! Ah, how the women love me! Ah, into what an ecstasy I
bring them ...' You know, there are cases when a man with the most
desperate brazenness, in the most unlikely manner, is flattered to
his face, and he himself sees and knows it very plainly, but--the
devil take it!--despite everything a delightful feeling of some
sort lubricates his soul. And so here. Query: whose is the
initiative in the lie?

"And here's a third point for you, Lichonin. You prompted it
yourself. They lie most of all when they are asked: 'How did you
come to such a life?' But what right have you to ask her about
that, may the devil take you! For she does not push her way into
your intimate life? She doesn't interest herself with your first,
'holy' love or the virtue of your sisters and your bride. Aha! You
pay money? Splendid! The bawd and the bouncer, and the police, and
medicine, and the city government, watch over your interests.
Polite and seemly conduct on the part of the prostitute hired by
you for love is guaranteed you, and your personality is immune ...
even though in the most direct sense, in the sense of a slap in
the face, which you, of course, deserve through your aimless, and
perhaps tormenting interrogations. But you desire truth as well
for your money? Well, that you are never to discount and to
control. They will tell you just such a conventionalized history
as you--yourself a man of conventionality and a vulgarian--will
digest easiest of all. Because by itself life is either
exceedingly humdrum and tedious to you, or else as exceedingly
improbable as only life can be improbable. And so you have the
eternal mediocre history about an officer, about a shop clerk,
about a baby and a superannuated father, who there, in the
provinces, bewails his strayed daughter and implores her to return
home. But mark you, Lichonin, all that I'm saying doesn't apply to
you; in you, upon my word of honour, I sense a sincere and great
soul ... Let's drink to your health?"

They drank.

"Shall I speak on?" continued Platonov undecidedly.

"Are you bored?"

"No, no, I beg of you, speak on."

"They also lie, and lie especially innocently, to those who preen
themselves before them on political hobby horses. Here they agree
with anything you want. I shall tell her to-day: Away with the
modern bourgeois order! Let us destroy with bombs and daggers the
capitalists, landed proprietors, and the bureaucracy! She'll
warmly agree with me. But to-morrow the hanger-on Nozdrunov will
yell that it's necessary to string up all the socialists, to beat
up all the students and massacre all the sheenies, who partake of
communion in Christian blood. And she'll gleefully agree with him
as well. But if in addition to that you'll also inflame her
imagination, make her fall in love with yourself, then she'll go
with you everywhere you may wish--on a pogrom, on a barricade, on
a theft, on a murder. But then, children also are yielding. And
they, by God, are children, my dear Lichonin...

"At fourteen years she was seduced, and at sixteen she became a
patent prostitute, with a yellow ticket and a venereal disease.
And here is all her life, surrounded and fenced off from the
universe with a sort of a bizarre, impenetrable and dead wall.
Turn your attention to her everyday vocabulary--thirty or forty
words, no more--altogether as with a baby or a savage: to eat, to
drink, to sleep, man, bed, the madam, rouble, lover, doctor,
hospital, linen, policeman--and that's all. And so her mental
development, her experience, her interests, remain on an infantile
plane until her very death, exactly as in the case of a gray and
naive lady teacher who has not crossed over the threshold of a
female institute since she was ten, as in the case of a nun given
as a child into a convent. In a word, picture to yourself a tree
of a genuinely great species, but raised in a glass bell, in a jar
from jam. And precisely to this childish phase of their existence
do I attribute their compulsory lying--so innocent, purposeless
and habitual ... But then, how fearful, stark, unadorned with
anything the frank truth in this business-like dickering about the
price of a night; in these ten men in an evening; in these printed
rules, issued by the city fathers, about the use of a solution of
boric acid and about maintaining one's self in cleanliness; in the
weekly doctors' inspections; in the nasty diseases, which are
looked upon as lightly and facetiously, just as simply and without
suffering, as a cold would be; in the deep revulsion of these
women to men--so deep, that they all, without conception,
compensate for it in the Lesbian manner and do not even in the
least conceal it. All their incongruous life is here, on the palm
of my hand, with all its cynicism, monstrous and coarse injustice;
but there is in it none of that falsehood and that hypocrisy
before people and before one's self, which enmesh all humanity
from top to bottom. Consider, my dear Lichonin, how much nagging,
drawn out, disgusting deception, how much hate, there is in any
marital cohabitation in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred. How
much blind, merciless cruelty--precisely not animal, but human,
reasoned, far-sighted, calculated cruelty--there is in the sacred
maternal instinct--and behold, with what tender colours this
instinct is adorned! Then what about all these unnecessary, tom-
fool professions, invented by cultured man for the safeguarding of
my nest, my bit of meat, my woman, my child, these different
overseers, controllers, inspectors, judges, attorneys, jailers,
advocates, chiefs, bureaucrats, generals, soldiers, and hundreds
of thousands of titles more. They all subserve human greed,
cowardice, viciousness, servility, legitimised sensuality,
laziness-beggarliness!--yes, that is the real word!--human
beggarliness. But what magnificent words we have! The altar of the
fatherland, Christian compassion for our neighbor, progress,
sacred duty, sacred property, holy love. Ugh! I do not believe in
a single fine word now, and I am nauseated to infinity with these
petty liars, these cowards and gluttons! Beggar women! ... Man is
born for great joy, for ceaseless creation, in which he is God;
for a broad, free love, unhindered by anything,--love for
everything: for a tree, for the sky, for man, for a dog, for the
dear, benign, beautiful earth,--oh, especially for the earth with
its beatific motherhood, with its mornings and nights, with its
magnificent everyday miracles. But man has lied himself out so,
has become such an importunate beggar, and has sunk so low! ...
Ah, Lichonin, but I am weary!"

"I, as an anarchist, partly understand you," said Lichonin
thoughtfully. It was as though he heard and yet did not hear the
reporter. Some thought was with difficulty, for the first time,
being born in his mind. "But one thing I can not comprehend. If
humanity has become so malodorous to you, then how do you stand--
and for so long, too,--all this,--" Lichonin took in the whole
table with a circular motion of his hand,--"the basest thing that
mankind could invent?"

"Well, I don't even know myself," said Platonov with artlessness.
"You see, I am a vagabond, and am passionately in love with life.
I have been a turner, a compositor; I have sown and sold tobacco--
the cheap Silver Makhorka kind--have sailed as a stoker on the
Azov Sea, have been a fisherman on the Black--on the Dubinin
fisheries; I have loaded watermelons and bricks on the Dnieper,
have ridden with a circus, have been an actor--I can't even recall
everything. And never did need drive me. No, only an immeasurable
thirst for life and an insupportable curiosity. By God, I would
like for a few days to become a horse, a plant, or a fish, or to
be a woman and experience childbirth; I would like to live with
the inner life, and to look upon the universe with the eyes of
every human being I meet. And so I wander care-free over towns and
hamlets, bound by nothing; know and love tens of trades and
joyously float wherever it suits fate to set my sail... And so it
was that I came upon the brothel, and the more I look at it, the
more there grows within me alarm, incomprehension, and very great
anger. But even this will soon be at an end. When things get well
into autumn--away again! I'll get into a rail-rolling mill. I've a
certain friend, he'll manage it ... Wait, wait, Lichonin ...
Listen to the actor ... That's the third act."

Egmont-Lavretzki, who until this had been very successfully
imitating now a shoat which is being put into a bag, now the
altercation of a cat with a dog, was beginning little by little to
wilt and droop. Upon him was already advancing the stage of self-
revelation, next in order, in the paroxysm of which he several
times attempted to kiss Yarchenko's hand. His lids had become red;
around the shaven, prickly lips had deepened the tearful wrinkles
that gave him an appearance of weeping; and it could be heard by
his voice that his nose and throat were already overflowing with
tears.

"I serve in a farce!" he was saying, smiting himself on the breast
with his fist. "I disport myself in striped trunks for the sport
of the sated mob! I have put out my torch, have hid my talent in
the earth, like the slothful servant! But fo-ormerly!" he began to
bray tragically, "Fo-ormerly-y-y! Ask in Novocherkassk, ask in
Tvier, in Ustejne, in Zvenigorodok, in Krijopole. [Footnote: All
provincial towns.--Trans.] What a Zhadov and Belugin I was! How I
played Max! What a figure I created of Veltishchev--that was my
crowning ro-ole ... Nadin-Perekopski was beginning with me at
Sumbekov's! With Nikiphorov-Pavlenko did I serve. Who made the
name for Legunov-Pochainin? I! But no-ow ..."

He sniveled, and sought to kiss the sub-professor.

"Yes! Despise me, brand me, ye honest folk. I play the tom-fool.
I drink ... I have sold and spilt the sacred ointment! I sit in a
dive with vendable merchandise. While my wife ... she is a saint,
and pure, my little dove! ... Oh, if she knew, if she only knew!
she works hard, she runs a modiste's shop; her fingers--the
fingers of an angel--are pricked with the needle, but I! Oh,
sainted woman! And I--the scoundrel!--whom do I exchange thee for!
Oh, horror!" The actor seized his hair. "Professor, let me, I'll
kiss your scholarly hand. You alone understand me. Let us go, I'll
introduce you, you'll see what an angel this is! ... She awaits
me, she does not sleep nights, she folds the tiny hands of my
little ones and together with them whispers: 'Lord, save and
preserve papa.'"

"You're lying about it all, you ham!" said the drunken Little
White Manka suddenly, looking with hatred upon Egmont-Lavretzki.
"She isn't whispering anything, but most peacefully sleeping with
a man in your bed."

"Be still, you w--!" vociferated the actor beside himself; and
seizing a bottle by the neck raised it high over his head. "Hold
me, or else I'll brain this carrion. Don't you dare besmirch with
your foul tongue..."

"My tongue isn't foul--I take communion," impudently replied the
woman. "But you, you fool, wear horns. You go traipsing around
with prostitutes yourself, and yet want your wife not to play you
false. And look where the dummy's found a place to slaver, till he
looks like he had reins in his mouth. And what did you mix the
children in for, you miserable papa you! Don't you roll your eyes
and gnash your teeth at me. You won't frighten me! W--yourself!"

It required many efforts and much eloquence on the part of
Yarchenko in order to quiet the actor and Little White Manka, who
always after Benedictine ached for a row. The actor in the end
burst into copious and unbecoming tears and blew his nose, like an
old man; he grew weak, and Henrietta led him away to her room.

Fatigue had already overcome everybody. The students, one after
another, returned from the bedrooms; and separately from them,
with an indifferent air, came their chance mistresses. And truly,
both these and the others resembled flies, males and females, just
flown apart on the window pane. They yawned, stretched, and for a
long time an involuntary expression of wearisomeness and aversion
did not leave their faces, pale from sleeplessness, unwholesomely
glossy. And when they, before going their ways, said good-bye to
each other, in their eyes twinkled some kind of an inimical
feeling, just as with the participants of one and the same filthy
and unnecessary crime.

"Where are you going right now?" Lichonin asked the reporter in a
low voice.

"Well, really, I don't know myself. I did want to spend the night
in the cabinet of Isaiah Savvich, but it's a pity to lose such a
splendid morning. I'm thinking of taking a bath, and then I'll get
on a steamer and ride to the Lipsky monastery to a certain
tippling black friar I know. But why?"

"I would ask you to remain a little while and sit the others out.
I must have a very important word or two with you."

"It's a go."

Yarchenko was the last to go. He averred a headache and fatigue.
But scarcely had he gone out of the house when the reporter seized
Lichonin by the hand and quickly dragged him into the glass
vestibule of the entrance.

"Look!" he said, pointing to the street.

And through the orange glass of the little coloured window
Lichonin saw the sub-professor, who was ringing at Treppel's.
After a minute the door opened and Yarchenko disappeared through
it.

"How did you find out?" asked Lichonin with astonishment.

"A mere trifle! I saw his face, and saw his hands smoothing
Verka's tights. The others were less restrained. But this fellow
is bashful."

"Well, now, let's go," said Lichonin. "I won't detain you long."





CHAPTER XII.


Of the girls only two remained in the cabinet-Jennie, who had come
in her night blouse, and Liuba, who had long been sleeping under
cover of the conversation, curled up into a ball in the large
plush armchair. The fresh, freckled face of Liuba had taken on a
meek, almost childlike, expression, while the lips, just as they
had smiled in sleep, had preserved the light imprint of a radiant,
peaceful and tender smile. It was blue and biting in the cabinet
from the dense tobacco smoke; guttered, warty little streams had
congealed on the candles in the candelabras; the table, flooded
with coffee and wine, scattered all over with orange peels, seemed
hideous.

Jennie was sitting on the divan, her knees clasped around with her
arms. And again was Platonov struck by the sombre fire in her deep
eyes, that seemed fallen in underneath the dark eyebrows,
formidably contracted downward, toward the bridge of the nose.

"I'll put out the candles," said Lichonin.

The morning half-light, watery and drowsy, filled the room through
the slits of the blinds. The extinguished wicks of the candles
smoked with faint streams. The tobacco smoke swirled in blue,
layered shrouds, but a ray of sunlight that had cut its way
through the heart-shaped hollow in a window shutter, transpierced
the cabinet obliquely with a joyous, golden sword of dust, and in
liquid, hot gold splashed upon the paper on the wall.

"That's better," said Lichonin, sitting down. "The conversation
will be short, but ... the devil knows ... how to approach it."

He looked at Jennie in abstraction.

"Shall I go away, then?" said she indifferently.

"No, you sit a while," the reporter answered for Lichonin. "She
won't be in the way," he turned to the student and slightly
smiled. "For the conversation will be about prostitution? Isn't
that so?"

"Well, yes... sort of..."

"Very well, then. You listen to her carefully. Her opinions happen
to be of an unusually cynical nature, but at times of exceeding
weight."

Lichonin vigorously rubbed and kneaded his face with his palms,
then intertwined his fingers and nervously cracked them twice. It
was apparent that he was agitated and was himself constrained
about that which he was getting ready to say.

"Oh, but isn't it all the same!" he suddenly exclaimed angrily.
"You were to-day speaking about these women ... I listened...
True, you haven't told me anything new. But-strangely-I, for some
reason, as though for the first time in my loose life, have looked
upon this question with open eyes... I ask you, what is
prostitution in the end? What is it? The extravagant delirium of
large cities, or an eternal historical phenomenon? Will it cease
some time? Or will it die only with the death of all mankind? Who
will answer me that?"

Platonov was looking at him intently, narrowing his eyes slightly,
through habit. He wanted to know what main thought was inflicting
such sincere torture on Lichonin.

"When it will cease, none will tell you. Perhaps when the
magnificent Utopias of the socialists and anarchists will
materialize, when the world will become everyone's and no one's,
when love will be absolutely free and subject only to its own
unlimited desires, while mankind will fuse into one happy family,
wherein will perish the distinction between mine and thine, and
there will come a paradise upon earth, and man will again become
naked, glorified and without sin. Perhaps it may be then..."

"But now? Now?" asks Lichonin with growing agitation. "Shall I
look on, with my little hands folded? 'It's none of my affair?'
Tolerate it as an unavoidable evil? Put up with it, and wash my
hands of it? Shall I pronounce a benediction upon it?"

"This evil is not unavoidable, but insuperable. But isn't it all
the same to you?" asked Platonov with cold wonder. "For you're an
anarchist, aren't you?"

"What the devil kind of an anarchist am I! Well, yes, I am an
anarchist, because my reason, when I think of life, always leads
me logically to the anarchistic beginning. And I myself think in
theory: let men beat, deceive, and fleece men, like flocks of
sheep--let them!--violence will breed rancour sooner or later. Let
them violate the child, let them trample creative thought under
foot, let there be slavery, let there be prostitution, let them
thieve, mock, spill blood...Let them! The worse, the better, the
nearer the end. There is a great law, I think, the same for
inanimate objects as well as for all the tremendous and many-
millioned human life: the power of effort is equal to the power of
resistance. The worse, the better. Let evil and vindictiveness
accumulate in mankind, let them grow and ripen like a monstrous
abscess--an abscess the size of the whole terrestrial sphere. For
it will burst some time! And let there be terror and insufferable
pain. Let the pus deluge all the universe. But mankind will either
choke in it and perish, or, having gone through the illness, will
be regenerated to a new, beautiful life."

Lichonin avidly drank off a cup of cold black coffee and continued
vehemently:

"Yes. Just so do I and many others theorize, sitting in our rooms,
over tea with white bread and cooked sausage, when the value of
each separate human life is so-so, an infinitesimally small
numeral in a mathematical formula. But let me see a child abused,
and the red blood will rush to my head from rage. And when I look
and look upon the labour of a moujik or a labourer, I am thrown
into hysterics for shame at my algebraic calculations. There is--
the devil take it!--there is something incongruous, altogether
illogical, but which at this time is stronger than human reason.
Take to-day, now ... Why do I feel at this minute as though I had
robbed a sleeping man or deceived a three-year-old child, or hit a
bound person? And why does it seem to me to-day that I myself am
guilty of the evil of prostitution--guilty in my silence, my
indifference, my indirect permission? What am I to do, Platonov!"
exclaimed the student with grief in his voice.

Platonov kept silent, squinting at him with his little narrow
eyes. But Jennie unexpectedly said in a caustic tone:

"Well, you do as one Englishwoman did ... A certain red-haired
clodhopper came to us here. She must have been important, because
she came with a whole retinue ... all some sort of officials ...
But before her had come the assistant of the commissioner, with
the precinct inspector Kerbesh. And the assistant directly
forewarned us, just like that: 'If you stiffs, and so on and so
on, will let out even one little rude word, or something, then I
won't leave one stone upon another of your establishment, while
I'll flog all the wenches soundly in the station-house and make
'em rot in jail!' Well, at last this galoot came. She gibbered and
she gibbered something in a foreign language, all the time pointed
to heaven with her hand, and then distributed a five-kopeck
Testament to every one of us and rode away. Now you ought to do
the same, dearie."

Platonov burst into loud laughter. But seeing the naive and sad
face of Lichonin, who did not seem to understand, nor even suspect
mockery, he restrained his laughter and said seriously:

"You won't accomplish anything, Lichonin. While there will be
property, there will also be poverty. While marriage exists,
prostitution also will not die. Do you know who will always
sustain and nourish prostitution? It is the so-called decent
people, the noble paterfamiliases, the irreproachable husbands,
the loving brothers. They will always find a seemly motive to
legitimize, normalize and put a wrapper all around paid
libertinage, because they know very well that otherwise it would
rush in a torrent into their bedrooms and nurseries. Prostitution
is for them a deflection of the sensuousness of others from their
personal, lawful alcove. And even the respectable paterfamilias
himself is not averse to indulge in a love debauch in secret. And
really, it is palling to have always the one and the same thing
the wife, the chambermaid, and the lady on the side. Man, as a
matter of fact, is a poly--and exceedingly so--a polygamous
animal. And to his rooster-like amatory instincts it will always
be sweet to unfold in such a magnificent nursery garden, A LA
Treppel's or Anna Markovna's. Oh, of course, a well-balanced
spouse or the happy father of six grown-up daughters will always
be clamouring about the horror of prostitution. He will even
arrange with the help of a lottery and an amateur entertainment a
society for the saving of fallen women, or an asylum in the name
of St. Magdalene. But the existence of prostitution he will bless
and sustain."

"Magdalene asylums!" with quiet laughter, full of an ancient
hatred the ache of which had not yet healed, repeated Jennie.

"Yes, I know that all these false measures undertaken are stuff
and a total mockery," cut in Lichonin. "But let me be ridiculous
and stupid, yet I do not wish to remain a commiserating spectator,
who sits on a warm ledge, gazes upon a conflagration, and is
saying all the time: 'Oh, my, but it's burning ... by God, it is
burning! Perhaps there are even people burning!'--but for his part
merely laments and slaps his thighs."

"Well, now," said Platonov harshly, "would you take a child's
syringe and go to put out the fire with it?"

"No!" heatedly exclaimed Lichonin ... "Perhaps--who knows?--
perhaps I'll succeed in saving at least one living soul? It was
just this that I wanted to ask you about, Platonov, and you must
help me ... Only, I implore you, without jeers, without cooling
off ..."

"You want to take a girl out of here? To save her?" asked
Platonov, looking at him attentively. He now understood the drift
of this entire conversation.

"Yes ... I don't know ... I'll try ..." answered Lichonin
uncertainly.

"She'll come back," said Platonov.

"She will," Jennie repeated with conviction.

Lichonin walked up to her, took her by the hands and began to
speak in a trembling whisper:

"Jennechka ... Perhaps you ... eh? For I don't call you as a
mistress ... but a friend ... It's all a trifle, half a year of
rest ... and then we'll master some trade or other ... we'll
read..."

Jennie snatched her hands out of his with vexation.

"Oh, into a bog with you!" she almost slouted. "I know you! Want
me to darn socks for you? Cook on a kerosene stove? Pass nights
without sleeping on account of you when you'll be chitter-
chattering with your short-haired friends? But when you get to be
a doctor or a lawyer, or a government clerk, then it's me will get
a knee in the back: 'Out on the street with you, now, you public
hide, you've ruined my young life. I want to marry a decent girl,
pure, and innocent! ..."

"I meant it as a brother ... I meant it without that ..." mumbled
Lichonin in confusion.

"I know that kind of brothers. Until the first night ... Leave off
and don't talk nonsense to me! It makes me tired to listen to it!"

"Wait, Lichonin!" began the reporter seriously. "Why, you will
pile a load beyond your strength upon yourself as well. I've known
idealists, among the populists, who married peasant girls out of
principle. This is just the way they thought--nature, black-loam,
untapped forces. ... But this black-loam after a year turned into
the fattest of women, who lies the whole day in bed and chews
cookies, or studs her fingers with penny rings, spreads them out
and admires them. Or else sits in the kitchen, drinks sweet liquor
with the coachman and carries on a natural romance with him. Look
out, here it will be worse!"

All three became silent. Lichonin was pale and was wiping his
moist forehead with a handkerchief.

"No, the devil take it!" he cried out suddenly with obstinacy. "I
don't believe you! I don't want to believe! Liuba" he called
loudly the girl who had fallen asleep. "Liubochka!"

The girl awoke, passed her palm over her lips, first to one side,
then the other, yawned, and smiled, in a funny, child-like manner.

"I wasn't sleeping, I heard everything," she said. "I only dozed
off for a teeny-weeny bit."

"Liuba, do you want to go away from here with me?" asked Lichonin
and took her by the hand. "But entirely, forever, to go away so's
never to return either to a brothel or the street?"

Liuba questioningly, with perplexity, looked at Jennie, as though
seeking from her an explanation of this jest.

"That's enough for you," she said slyly. "You're still studying
yourself. Where do you come in, then, to take a girl and set her
up?"

"Not to set you up, Liuba ... I simply want to help you ... For it
isn't very sweet for you in a brothel, is it now!"

"Naturally, it isn't all sugar! If I was as proud as Jennechka, or
so enticing like Pasha ... but I won't get used to things here for
anything ..."

"Well, then, let's go, let's go! ..." entreated Lichonin. "Surely,
you know some manual work--well, now, sewing something,
embroidering, cutting?"

"I don't know anything!" answered Liuba bashfully and started
laughing and turned red, covering her mouth with the elbow of her
free arm. "What's asked of us in the village, that I know, but
anything more I don't know. I can cook a little ... I lived at the
priest's--cooked for him."

"That's splendid! That's excellent!" Lichonin grew joyous. "I will
assist you, you'll open a dining room ... A cheap dining room, you
understand ... I'll advertise it for you ... The students will
come! That's magnificent! ..."

"That's enough of making fun of me!" retorted Liuba, a bit
offended, and again looked askance and questioningly at Jennie.

"He's not joking," answered Jennie with a voice which quavered
strangely. "He's in earnest, seriously."

"Here's my word of honour that I'm serious! Honest to God,
now!" the student caught her up with warmth and for some reason
even made the sign of the cross in the direction of the empty
corner.

"And really," said Jennie, "take Liubka. That's not the same thing
as taking me. I'm like an old dragoon's nag, and used to it. You
can't make me over, neither with hay nor a stick. But Liubka is a
simple girl and a kind one. And she hasn't grown used to our life
yet. What are you popping your eyes out at me for, you ninny?
Answer when you're asked. Well? Do you want to or don't you want
to?"

"And why not? If they ain't laughing, but for real ... And you,
Jennechka, what would you advise me ..."

"Oh, you're such wood!" Jennie grew angry. "What's better
according to you--to rot on straw with a nose fallen through? To
croak under the fence like a dog? Or to turn honest? Fool! You
ought to kiss his hands; but no, you're getting particular."

The naive Liuba did, in fact, extend her lips toward Lichonin's
hand, and this movement made everybody laugh, and touched them
just the least trifle.

"And that's very good! It's like magic!" bustled the overjoyed
Lichonin. "Go and notify the proprietress at once that you're
going away from here forever. And take the most necessary things;
it isn't as it used to be; now a girl can go away from a brothel
whenever she wants to."

"No, it can't be done that way," Jennie stopped him; "she can go
away, that's so, but you'll have no end of unpleasantness and
hullabaloo. Here's what you do, student. You won't regret ten
roubles?"

"Of course, of course ... if you please."

"Let Liuba tell the housekeeper that you're taking her to your
rooms for to-day. That's the fixed rate--ten roubles. And
afterwards, well, even to-morrow--come after the ticket and
things. That's nothing; we'll work this thing roundly. And after
that you must go to the police with her ticket and declare, that
Liubka So-and-so has hired herself to you as chambermaid, and that
you desire to exchange her blank for a real passport. Well,
Liubka, lively! Take the money and march. And, look out, be as
quick as possible with the housekeeper, or else she, the bitch,
will read it in your eyes. And also don't forget," she cried, now
after Liuba, "wipe the rouge off your puss, now. Or else the
drivers will be pointing their fingers at you."

After half an hour Liuba and Lichonin were getting on a cab at the
entrance. Jennie and the reporter were standing on the sidewalk.

"You're committing a great folly, Lichonin," Platonov was saying
listlessly, "but I honour and respect the fine impulse within you.
Here's the thought--and here's the deed. You're a brave and a
splendid fellow."

"Here's to your commencement!" laughed Jennie. "Look out, don't
forget to send for me to the christening."

"You won't see it, no matter how long you wait for it!" laughed
Lichonin, waving his cap about.

They rode off. The reporter looked at Jennie, and with
astonishment saw tears in her softened eyes.

"God grant it, God grant it," she was whispering.

"What has been the matter with you to-day, Jennie?" he asked
kindly. "What? Are you oppressed? Can't I do anything?"

She turned her back to him and leaned over the bent balustrade of
the stoop.

"How shall I write to you, if need be?" she asked in a stifled
voice.

"Why, it's simple. Editorial rooms of Echoes. So-and-so. They'll
pass it on to me pretty fast."

"I ... I ... I ..." Jennie just began, but suddenly burst into
loud, passionate sobs and covered her face with her hands, "I'll
write you ..."

And without taking her hands away from her face, her shoulders
quivering, she ran up the stoop and disappeared in the house,
loudly banging the door after her.





PART TWO





CHAPTER I.


Even to this day, after a lapse of ten years, the erstwhile
inhabitants of the Yamkas recall that year, abounding in unhappy,
foul, bloody events, which began with a series of trifling, small
affrays, but terminated in the administration's, one fine day,
taking and destroying completely the ancient, long-warmed nest of
legalized prostitution, which nest it had itself created--
scattering its remains over the hospitals, jails and streets of
the big city. Even to this day a few of the former proprietresses
who have remained alive and have reached the limit of decrepitude,
and quondam housekeepers, fat and hoarse, like pug-dogs grown old,
recall this common destruction with sorrow, horror, and stolid
perplexity.

Just like potatoes out of a sack, brawls, robberies, diseases,
murders and suicides began to pour down, and, it seemed, no one
was to blame for this. All these misfortunes just simply began to
be more frequent of their own accord, to pile one upon the other,
to expand and grow; just as a small lump of snow, pushed by the
feet of urchins, becomes constantly bigger and bigger by itself
from the thawing snow sticking to it, grows bigger than the
stature of a man, and, finally, with one last, small effort is
precipitated into a ravine and rolls down as an enormous
avalanche. The old proprietresses and housekeepers, of course, had
never heard of fatality; but inwardly, with the soul, they sensed
its mysterious presence in the inevitable calamities of that
terrible year.

And, truly, everywhere in life where people are bound by common
interests, blood relationship, or the benefits of a profession
into close, individualized groups--there inevitably can be
observed this mysterious law of sudden accumulation, of a piling
up, of events; their epidemicity, their strange succession and
connectedness, their incomprehensible lingering. This occurs, as
popular wisdom has long ago noted, in isolated families, where
disease or death suddenly falls upon the near ones in an
inevitable, enigmatic order. "Misfortune does not come alone."
"Misfortune without waits--open wide the gates." This is to be
noticed also in monasteries, banks, governmental departments,
regiments, places of learning and other public institutions, where
for a long time, almost for decades, life flows evenly, like a
marshy river; and, suddenly, and after some altogether
insignificant incident or other, there begin transfers, changes in
positions, expulsions from service, losses, sicknesses. The
members of society, just as though they had conspired, die, go
insane, are caught thieving, shoot or hang themselves; vacancy
after vacancy is freed; promotions follow promotions, new elements
flow in, and, behold, after two years there is not a one of the
previous people on the spot; everything is new, if only the
institution has not fallen into pieces completely, has not crept
apart. And is it not the same astounding destiny which overtakes
enormous social, universal organizations--cities, empires,
nations, countries, and, who knows, perhaps whole planetary
worlds?

Something resembling this incomprehensible fatality swept over the
Yamaskya Borough as well, bringing it to a rapid and scandalous
destruction. Now in place of the boisterous Yamkas is left a
peaceful, humdrum outskirt, in which live truck-farmers, cat's-
meat men, Tartars, swineherds and butchers from the near-by
slaughterhouses. At the petition of these worthy people even the
designation of Yamaskya Borough itself, as disgracing the
inhabitants with its past, has been named over into Golubovka, in
honour of the merchant Golubov, owner of a shop dealing in
groceries and delicacies, and warden of the local church.

The first subterranean shocks of this catastrophe began in the
heat of summer, at the time of the annual summer fair, which this
year was unbelievably brilliant. Many circumstances contributed to
its extraordinary success, multitudes, and the stupendousness of
the deals concluded during it: the building in the vicinity of
three new sugar refineries, and the unusually abundant crop of
wheat, and, in particular, of sugar beets; the commencement of
work in the laying of an electric trolley and of canalization; the
building of a new road to the distance of 750 versts; but mainly,
the fever of building which seized the whole town, all the banks
and financial institutions, and all the houseowners. Factories for
making brick sprang up on the outskirts of the town like
mushrooms. A grandiose agricultural exposition opened. Two new
steamer lines came into being, and they, together with the
previously established ones, frenziedly competed with each other,
transporting freight and pilgrims. In competition they reached
such a state, that they lowered their passenger rates for the
third class from seventy-five kopecks to five, three, two, and
even one kopeck. In the end, ready to fall from exhaustion in the
unequal struggle, one of the steamship companies offered a free
passage to all the third-class passengers. Then its competitor at
once added to the free passage half a loaf of white bread as well.
But the biggest and most significant enterprise of this city was
the engineering of the extensive river port, which had attracted
to it hundreds of thousands of labourers and which cost God knows
what money.

It must also be added, that the city was at this time celebrating
the millennial anniversary of its famous abbey, the most honoured
and the richest among all the monasteries of Russia. From all the
ends of Russia, out of Siberia, from the shores of the Frozen
Ocean, from the extreme south--the Black and Caspian Seas--
countless pilgrims had gathered for the worship of the local
sanctities: the abbey's saints, reposing deep underground in
calcareous caverns. Suffice it to say, that the monastery gave
shelter, and food of a sort, to forty thousand people daily; while
those for whom there was not enough room lay, at night, side by
side, like logs, in the extensive yards and lanes of the abbey.

This was a summer out of some fairy-tale. The population of the
city increased well-nigh fourfold through every sort of newly-come
people. Stone-masons, carpenters, painters, engineers,
technicians, foreigners, agriculturists, brokers, shady business
men, river navigators, unoccupied knaves, tourists, thieves, card
sharpers--they all overflowed the city, and not in a single hotel,
the most dirty and dubious one, was there a vacant room. Insane
prices were paid for quarters. The stock exchange gambled on a
grand scale, as never before or since that summer. Money in
millions simply flowed from hands to hands, and thence to a third
pair. In one hour colossal riches were created, but then many
former firms burst, and yesterday's men of wealth turned into
beggars. The commonest of labourers bathed and warmed themselves
in this golden flood. Stevedores, draymen, street porters,
roustabouts, hod carriers and ditch diggers still remember to this
day what money they earned by the day during this mad summer. Any
tramp received no less than four of five roubles a day at the
unloading of barges laden with watermelons. And all this noisy,
foreign band, locoed by the easy money, intoxicated with the
sensual beauty of the ancient, seductive city, enchanted by the
delightful warmth of the southern nights, made drunk by the
insidious fragrance of the white acacias--these hundreds of
thousands of insatiable, dissolute beasts in the image of men,
with all their massed will clamoured: "Give us woman!"

In a single month new amusement enterprises--chic Tivolis,
CHATEAUX DES FLEURES, Olympias, Alcazars, etc., with a chorus and
an operetta; many restaurants and beerhouses, with little summer
gardens, and common little taverns--sprang up by the score in the
city, in the vicinity of the building port. On every crossing new
"violet-wine" houses were opened every day--little booths of
boards, in each of which, under the pretext of selling bread-
cider, old wenches trafficked in themselves by twos and threes,
right alongside behind a partition of deal, and to many mothers
and fathers is this summer painful and memorable through the
degrading diseases of their sons--schoolboys and military cadets.
For the casual arrivals servants were demanded, and thousands of
peasant girls started out from the surrounding villages toward the
city. It was inevitable that the demand on prostitution should
become unusually high. And so, from Warsaw, from Lodz, from
Odessa, from Moscow, and even from St. Petersburg, even from
abroad, flocked together an innumerable multitude of foreign
women; cocottes of Russian fabrication, the most ordinary
prostitutes of the rank and file, and chic Frenchwomen and
Viennese. Imperiously told the corrupting influence of the
hundreds of millions of easy money. It was as though this cascade
of gold had lashed down upon, had set to whirling and deluged
within it, the whole city. The number of thefts and murders
increased with astounding rapidity. The police, collected in
augmented proportions, lost its head and was swept off its feet.
But it must also be said that, having gorged itself with plentiful
bribes, it resembled a sated python, willy-nilly drowsy and
listless. People were killed for anything and nothing, just so. It
happened that men would walk up to a person in broad daylight
somewhere on an unfrequented street and ask: "What's your name?"
"Fedorov." "Aha, Federov? Then take this!" and they would slit his
belly with a knife. They nicknamed these blades just that in the
city--"rippers"; and there were among them names of which the city
news seemed actually proud: the two brothers Polishchuk (Mitka and
Dundas), Volodka the Greek, Fedor Miller, Captain Dmitriev,
Sivocho, Dobrovolski, Shpachek, and many others.

Both day and night on the main streets of the frenzied city stood,
moved, and yelled the mob, as though at a fire. It would be almost
impossible to describe what went on in the Yamkas then. Despite
the fact that the madams had increased the staff of their patients
to more than double and increased their prices trebly, their poor
demented girls could not catch up in satisfying the demands of the
drunken, crazed public, which threw money around like chips. It
happened that in the drawing room, filled to overflowing with
people, each girl would be awaited for by some seven, eight, at
times even ten, men. It was, truly, some kind of a mad,
intoxicated, convulsive time!

And from that very time began all the misfortunes of the Yamkas,
which brought them to ruin. And together with the Yamkas perished
also the house, familiar to us, of the stout, old, pale-eyed Anna
Markovna.





CHAPTER II.


The passenger train sped merrily from the south to the north,
traversing golden fields of wheat and beautiful groves of oak,
careering with rumbling upon iron bridges over bright rivers,
leaving behind it whirling clouds of smoke.

In the COUPE of the second class, even with open windows, there
was a fearful stuffiness, and it was hot. The smell of sulphurous
smoke irritated the throat. The rocking and the heat had
completely tired out the passengers, save one, a merry, energetic,
mobile Hebrew, splendidly dressed, accommodating, sociable and
talkative. He was travelling with a young woman, and it was at
once apparent, especially through her, that they were newly-weds;
so often did her face flare up with an unexpected colour at every
tenderness of her husband, even the least. And when she raised her
eyelashes to look upon him, her eyes would shine like stars, and
grow humid. And her face was as beautiful as only the faces of
young Hebrew maidens in love can be beautiful--all tenderly rosy,
with rosy lips, rounded out in beautiful innocence, and with eyes
so black that their pupils could not be distinguished from the
irises.

Unabashed by the presence of three strange people, he showered his
caresses upon his companion every minute, and, it must be said,
sufficiently coarse ones. With the unceremoniousness of an owner,
with that especial egoism of one in love, who, it would seem, is
saying to the whole universe: "See, how happy we are--this makes
you happy also, isn't that so?"--he would now pass his hand over
her leg, which resiliently and in relief stood out beneath her
dress, now pinch her on the cheek, now tickle her neck with his
stiff, black, turned-up moustache ... But, even though he did
sparkle with delight, there was still something rapacious, wary,
uneasy to be glimpsed in his frequently winking eyes, in the
twitching of the upper lip, and in the harsh outline of his
shaved, square chin, jutting out, with a scarcely noticeable dent
in the middle.

Opposite this infatuated couple were placed three passengers--a
retired general, a spare, neat little old man, with pomade on his
hair, with curls combed forward to the temples; a stout land-
owner, who had taken off his starched collar, but was still
gasping from the heat and mopping his face every minute with a wet
handkerchief; and a young infantry officer. The endless
talkativeness of Simon Yakovlevich (the young man had already
managed to inform his neighbours that he was called Simon
Yakovlevich Horizon) tired and irritated the passengers a trifle,
just like the buzzing of a fly, that on a sultry summer day
rhythmically beats against a window pane of a closed, stuffy room.
But still, he knew how to raise their spirits: he showed tricks of
magic; told Hebrew anecdotes, full of a fine humour of their own.
When his wife would go out on the platform to refresh herself, he
would tell such things that the general would melt into a beatific
smile, the land-owner would neigh, rocking his black-loam stomach,
while the sub-lieutenant, a smooth-faced boy, only a year out of
school, scarcely controlling his laughter and curiosity, would
turn away to one side, that his neighbours might not see him
turning red.

His wife tended Horizon with a touching, naive attention; she
wiped his face with a handkerchief, waved upon him with a fan,
adjusted his cravat every minute. And his face at these times
became laughably supercilious and stupidly self-conceited.

"But allow me to ask," asked the spare little general, coughing
politely, "allow me to ask, my dear sir, what occupation might you
pursue?"

"Ah, my God!" with a charming frankness retorted Simon
Yakovlevich. "Well, what can a poor Jew do in our time? It's a bit
of a travelling salesman and a commission broker by me. At the
present time I'm far from business. You--he! he! he!--understand
yourselves, gentlemen. A honeymoon--don't turn red, Sarochka--it
don't repeat itself three times in a year. But afterwards I'll
have to travel and work a great deal. Here we'll come with
Sarochka to town, will pay the visits to her relatives, and then
again on the road. On my first trip I'm thinking of taking my
wife. You know, sort of a wedding journey. I'm a representative
from Sidris and two English firms. Wouldn't you like to have a
look? Here are the samples with me ..."

He very rapidly took out of a small, elegant case of yellow
leather a few long cardboard folding books, and with the dexterity
of a tailor began to unfold them, holding one end, from which
their folds fell downward with a light crackling.

"Look, what splendid samples: they don't give in to foreign ones
at all. Please notice. Here, for instance, is Russian and here
English tricot, or here, cangan and cheviot. Compare, feel it, and
you'll be convinced that the Russian samples almost don't give in
to the foreign. Why, that speaks of progress, of the growth of
culture. So it's absolutely for nothing that Europe counts us
Russians such barbarians.

"And so we'll pay our family visits, will look at the fair, pay a
visit to the CHATEAU DES FLEURS, enjoy ourselves a little, stroll
a bit, and then to the Volga down to Tzaritzin, to the Black Sea,
and then again home to our native Odessa."

"That's a fine journey," said the sub-lieutenant modestly.

"I should say it's fine," agreed Simon Yakovlevich; "but there are
no roses without thorns. The work of a travelling salesman is
exceedingly difficult and requires many kinds of knowledge, and
not so much the knowledge of business as the knowledge of--how
shall I say it?--the knowledge of the human soul. Another man may
not even want to give an order, but you must work like an elephant
to convince him, and argue until he feels the clearness and
justice of your words. Because I take only absolutely clean lines
exclusively, of which there can be no doubts. A fake or a bad line
I will not take, although they should offer me millions for it.
Ask wherever you like, in any store which deals in cloths or
suspenders GLOIRE--I'm also a representative from this firm--or
buttons HELIOS--you just ask who Simon Yakovlevich Horizon is, and
everyone will answer you: 'Simon Yakovlevich is not a man, but
gold; this is a disinterested man, as honest as a diamond.' "And
Horizon was already unpacking long boxes with patented suspenders,
and was showing the glistening leaves of cardboard, covered with
regular rows of vari-coloured buttons.

"There happen great unpleasantnesses, when the place has been
worked out, when a lot of travelling salesmen have appeared before
you. Here you can't do anything; they absolutely won't listen to
you, only wave their arms. But that's only for others. I am
Horizon! I can talk him over, the same like a camel from a
menagerie. But it happens still more unpleasant, when two
competitors in one and the same line come together in the same
town. And it happens even worse when it's some chimney sweep and
can't do business himself and spoils business for you too. Here
you go to all sorts of tricks: let him drink till he's drunk or
let him go off somewhere on a false track. Not an easy trade!
Besides that, I have one more line--that's false eyes and teeth.
But it ain't a profitable line. I want to drop it. And besides I'm
thinking of leaving all this business. I understand, it's all
right for a young man, in the bloom of his powers, to flutter
around like a moth, but once you have a wife, and may be a whole
family even ..." he playfully patted the woman on the knee, from
which she became scarlet and looked uncommonly better. "For the
Lord has blessed us Jews with fecundity for all our misfortunes
... Then you want to have some business of your own, you want, you
understand, to become settled in one place, so's there should be a
shack of your own, and your own furniture, and your own bedroom,
and kitchen ... Isn't that so, your excellency?"

"Yes ... Yes ... eh--eh ... Yes, of course, of course,"
condescendingly responded the general.

"And so I took with Sarochka a little dowry. What do I mean, a
little dowry? Such money that Rothschild would not even want to
look at it are in my hands a whole capital already. But it must be
said that there are some savings by me, too. The firms I know will
give me credit. If God grant it, we shall still eat a piece of
bread and a little butter--and on the Sabbaths the tasty GEFILTEH
FISCH."

"That's fine fish: pike the way the sheenies make it!" said the
gasping land-owner.

"We shall open up for ourselves the firm of 'Horizon and Son.'
Isn't that true, Sarochka--'and Son?' And you, I hope, will honour
me with your esteemed orders? When you see the sign, 'Horizon and
Son,' then straight off recollect that you once rode in a car
together with a young man, who had grown as foolish as hell from
love and from happiness."

"Ab-solutely!" said the land-owner.

And Simon Yakovlevich at once turned to him:

"But I also work by commission broking. To sell an estate, to buy
an estate, to arrange a second mortgage--you won't find a better
specialist than me, and such a cheap one at that. I can be of
service to you, should the need arise," and he extended his
visiting card to the land-owner with a bow, and, by the way,
handed a card each to his two neighbours as well.

The land-owner dived into a side pocket and also dragged out a
card.

"Joseph Ivanovich Vengjenovski," Simon Yakovlevich read out loud.
"Very, very pleased! And so, should you need me ..."

"Why not? It's possible ..." said the land-owner meditatively.
"Why, yes: perhaps, indeed, a favourable chance has brought us
together! Why, I'm just journeying to K----about the sale of a
certain forest country house. Suppose you do that, then,--drop in
to see me. I always stop at the Grand Hotel. Perhaps we may be
able to strike up a deal."

"Oh, I'm already almost sure, my dearest Joseph Ivanovich!"
exclaimed the rejoicing Horizon, and slightly, with the very tips
of his fingers, patted Vengjenovski's kneecap carefully. "You just
rest assured; if Horizon has undertaken anything, then you'll be
thanking him like your own father, no more, no less."

Half an hour later Simon Yakovlevich and the smooth-faced sub-
lieutenant were standing on the platform of the car and smoking.

"Do you often visit K----, mister sub-lieutenant?" asked Horizon.

"Only for the first time--just imagine! Our regiment is stationed
at Chernobob. I was born in Moscow, myself."

"AI, AI, AI! How'd you come to get into such a faraway place?"

"Well, it just fell out so. There was no other vacancy when I was
let out."

"But then--Chernobob is a hole! The worst little town in all
Podolia."

"That's true, but it just fell out so."

"That means, then, that the young officer gent is going to K----to
divert himself a little?"

"Yes. I'm thinking of stopping there for two or three days. I'm
travelling to Moscow, really. I have received a two months' leave,
but it would be interesting to look over the city on the way. It's
very beautiful, they say."

"Oh, what are you trying to tell me? A remarkable city! Well,
absolutely a European city. If you only knew, what streets,
electricity, trolleys, theatres! And if you only knew what
cabarets! You'll lick your own fingers. Positively, positively, I
advise you, young man, to pay a visit to the CHATEAU DES FLEURS,
to the Tivoli, and also to ride out to the island. That's
something special. What women, wha-a-at women!"

The lieutenant turned red, took his eyes away, and asked in a
voice that quavered:

"Yes, I've happened to hear that. Is it possible that they're
really so handsome?"

"Oi! Strike me God! Believe me, there are no handsome women there
at all."

"But--how's that?"

"Why, this way: there are only raving beauties there. You
understand--what a happy blending of bloods! Polish, Little
Russian, and Hebrew. How I envy you, young man, that you're free
and alone. In my time I sure would have shown myself! And what's
most remarkable of all, they're unusually passionate women! Well,
just like fire! And do you know something else?" he asked in a
whisper of great significance.

"What?" asked the sub-lieutenant in a fright.

"It's remarkable, that nowheres, neither in Paris, nor in London--
believe me, this was told me by people who had seen the whole wide
world--never, nowhere, will you meet with such exquisite ways of
making love as in this town. That's something especial, as us
little Jews say. They think up such things that no imagination can
picture to itself. It's enough to drive you crazy!"

"But is that possible?" quietly spoke the sub-lieutenant, whose
breath had been cut off.

"Well, strike me God! But permit me, young man, by the way! You
understand yourself. I was single, and of course, every man is
liable to sin ... It's different now, of course. I've had myself
written in with the invalids. But from the former days a
remarkable collection has remained to me. Just wait, I'll show it
to you right away. Only, please, be as careful as possible in
looking at it."

Horizon with trepidation looked around to the right and left and
extracted from his pocket a long, narrow little box of morocco, in
the style of those in which playing cards are usually kept, and
extended it to the sub-lieutenant.

"Here you are, have a look. Only, I beg of you, be very careful."

The sub-lieutenant applied himself to picking out, one after the
other, the cards of plain and coloured photography, in which in
all possible aspects was depicted in the most beastly ways, in the
most impossible positions, the external side of love which at
times makes man immeasurably lower and viler than a baboon.
Horizon would look over his shoulder, nudge him with his elbow,
and whisper:

"Tell me, ain't that swell, now? Why, this is genuine Parisian and
Viennese chic!"

The sub-lieutenant looked through the whole collection from the
beginning to the end. When he was giving back the little box, his
hand was shaking, his temples and forehead were moist, his eyes
had dimmed, and over his cheeks had mantled a blush, mottled like
marble.

"But do you know what?" Horizon exclaimed gaily, all of a sudden.
"It's all the same to me--the Indian sign has been put upon me. I,
as they used to say in the olden times, have burned my ships ... I
have burned all that I used to adore before. For a long time
already I've been looking for an opportunity to pass these cards
on to some one. I ain't especially chasing after a price. You wish
to acquire them, mister officer?"

"Well, now ... I,--that is ... Why not? ... Let's ..."

"That's fine! On account of such a pleasant acquaintanceship, I'll
take fifty kopecks apiece. What, is that expensive? Well, what's
the difference, God be with you! I see you're a travelling man, I
don't want to rob you; let it go at thirty, then. What? That ain't
cheap either? Well, shake hands on it! Twenty-five kopecks apiece.
OI! What an intractable fellow you are! At twenty! You'll thank me
yourself later! And then, do you know what else? When I come to K
--, I always stop at the Hotel Hermitage. You can very easily
find me there either very early in the morning, or about eight
o'clock in the evening. I know an awful lot of the finest little
ladies. So I'll introduce you. And, you understand, not for money.
Oh, no. It's just simply nice and gay for them to pass the time
with a young, healthy, handsome man of your sort. There's
absolutely no money of any kind necessary. And for that matter--
they themselves will willingly pay for wine, for a bottle of
champagne! So remember then; The Hermitage, Horizon. And if it
isn't that, remember it anyway! Maybe I can be of use to you. And
the cards are such a thing, such a thing, that it will never lay
on the shelf by you. Those who like that sort of thing give three
roubles for each specimen. But these, of course, are rich people,
little old men. And then, you know"--Horizon bent over to the
officer's very ear, winked one eye, and pronounced in a sly
whisper--"you know, many ladies adore these cards. Why, you're a
young man, and handsome; how many romances you will have yet!"

Having received the money and counted it over painstakingly,
Horizon had the brazenness to extend his hand in addition, and to
shake the hand of the sub-lieutenant, who did not dare to lift up
his eyes to him; and, having left him on the platform, went back
into the passageway of the car, as though nothing had happened.

This was an unusually communicative man. On the way to his COUPE
he came to a stop before a beautiful little girl of three years,
with whom he had for some time been flirting at a distance and
making all sorts of funny grimaces at. He squatted down on his
heels before her, began to imitate a nanny goat for her, and
questioned her in a lisping voice:

"May I athk where the young lady ith going? OI, OI, OI! Thuch a
big girl! Travelling alone, without mamma? Bought a ticket all by
herthelf and travelth alone! AI! What a howwid girl! And where ith
the girl'th mamma?" At this moment a tall, handsome, self-assured
woman appeared from the COUPE and said calmly:

"Get away from the child. What a despicable thing to annoy strange
children!"

Horizon jumped up on his feet and began to bustle:

"Madam! I could not restrain myself ... Such a wonderful, such a
magnificent and swell child! A regular cupid! You must understand,
madam, I am a father myself--I have children of my own ... I could
not restrain myself from delight! ..."

But the lady turned her back upon him, took the girl by the hand
and went with her into the COUPE, leaving Horizon shuffling his
feet and muttering his compliments and apologies.

Several times during the twenty-four hours Horizon would go into
the third class, of two cars, separated from each other by almost
the entire train. In one care were sitting three handsome women,
in the society of a black-bearded, taciturn, morose man. Horizon
and he would exchange strange phrases in some special jargon. The
women looked at him uneasily, as though wishing, yet not daring,
to ask him about something. Only once, toward noon, did one of
them allow herself to utter:

"Then that's the truth? That which you said about the place? ...
You understand--I'm somewhat uneasy at heart!"

"Ah, what do you mean, Margarita Ivanovna? If I said it, then it's
right, just like by the National Bank. Listen, Lazer," he turned
to him of the beard. "There will be a station right away. Buy the
girls all sorts of sandwiches, whichever they may desire. The
train stops here for twenty-five minutes."

"I'd like to have bouillon," hesitatingly uttered a little blonde,
with hair like ripened rye, and with eyes like corn-flowers.

"My dear Bella, anything you please! At the station I'll go and
see that they bring you bouillon with meat and even stuffed
dumplings. Don't you trouble yourself, Lazer, I'll do all that
myself."

In another car he had a whole nursery garden of women, twelve or
fifteen people, under the leadership of an old, stout woman, with
enormous, awesome, black eyebrows. She spoke in a bass, while her
fat chins, breasts, and stomachs swayed under a broad morning
dress in time to the shaking of the car, just like apple jelly.
Neither the old woman nor the young women left the least doubts as
to their profession.

The women were lolling on the benches, smoking, playing cards--at
"sixty-six,"--drinking beer. Frequently the male public of the car
provoked them, and they swore back in unceremonious language, in
hoarse voices. The young people treated them with wine and
cigarettes.

Horizon was here altogether unrecognizable; he was majestically
negligent and condescendingly jocose. On the other hand, cringing
ingratiation sounded in every word addressed to him by his female
clients. But he, having looked over all of them--this strange
mixture of Roumanians, Jewesses, Poles and Russians--and having
assured himself that all was in order, gave orders about the
sandwiches and majestically withdrew. At these moments he very
much resembled a drover, who is transporting by railroad cattle
for slaughter, and at a station drops in to look it over and to
feed it. After that he would return to his COUPE and again begin
to toy with his wife, and Hebrew anecdotes just poured from his
mouth.

At the long stops he would go out to the buffet only to see about
his lady clients. But he himself said to his neighbours:

"You know, it's all the same to me if it's TREIF or KOSHER. I
don't recognize any difference. But what can I do with my stomach!
The devil knows what stuff they'll feed you sometimes at these
stations. You'll pay some three or four roubles, and then you'll
spend a hundred roubles on the doctors curing yourself. But maybe
you, now, Sarochka"--he would turn to his wife--"maybe you'll get
off at the station to eat something? Or shall I send it up to you
here?"

Sarochka, happy over his attention, would turn red, beam upon him
with grateful eyes, and refuse.

"You're very kind, Senya, only I don't want to. I'm full."

Then Horizon would reach out of a travelling hamper a chicken,
boiled meat, cucumbers, and a bottle of Palestine wine; have a
snack, without hurrying, with appetite; regale his wife, who ate
very genteelly, sticking out the little fingers of her magnificent
white hands; then painstakingly wrap up the remnants in paper and,
without hurrying, lay them away accurately in the hamper.

In the distance, far ahead of the locomotive, the cupolas and
belfries were already beginning to sparkle with fires of gold.
Through the COUPE passed the conductor and made some imperceptible
sign to Horizon. He immediately followed the conductor out to the
platform.

"The inspector will pass through right away," said the conductor,
"so you'll please be so kind as to stand for a while here on the
platform of the third class with your spouse."

"NU, NU, NU!" concurred Horizon.

"And the money as agreed, if you please."

"How much is coming to you, then?"

"Well, just as we agreed; half the extra charge, two roubles
eighty kopecks."

"What?" Horizon suddenly boiled over. "Two roubles eighty kopecks?
You think you got it a crazy one in me, what? Here's a rouble for
you and thank God for that!"

"Pardon me, sir. This is even absurd--didn't you and I agree?"

"Agree, agree! ... Here's a half more, and not a thing besides.
What impudence! I'll tell the inspector yet that you carry people
without tickets. Don't you think it, brother--you ain't found one
of that sort here!"

The conductor's eyes suddenly widened, became blood-shot.

"O-oh! You sheeny!" he began to roar. "I ought to take a skunk
like you and under the train with you!"

But Horizon at once flew at him like a cock.

"What? Under the train? But do you know what's done for words like
that? A threat by action! Here, I'll go right away and will yell
'help!' and will turn the signal handle," and he seized the door-
knob with such an air of resolution that the conductor just made a
gesture of despair with his hand and spat.

"May you choke with my money, you mangy sheeny!"

Horizon called his wife out of the COUPE:

"Sarochka! Let's go out on the platform for a look; one can see
better there. Well, it's so beautiful--just like on a picture!"

Sarah obediently went after him, holding up with an unskilled hand
the new dress, in all probability put on for the first time,
bending out and as though afraid of touching the door or the wall.

In the distance, in the rosy gala haze of the evening glow, shone
the golden cupolas and crosses. High up on the hill the white,
graceful churches seemed to float in this flowery, magic mirage.
Curly woods and coppices had run down from above and had pushed on
over the very ravine. And the sheer, white precipice which bathed
its foot in the blue river, was all furrowed over with occasional
young woods, just like green little veins and warts. Beautiful as
in a fairy tale, the ancient town appeared as though it were
itself coming to meet the train.

When the train stopped, Horizon ordered three porters to carry the
things into the first class, and told his wife to follow him. But
he himself lingered at the exit in order to let through both his
parties. To the old woman looking after the dozen women he threw
briefly in passing:

"So remember, madam Berman! Hotel America, Ivanukovskaya, twenty-
two!"

While to the black-bearded man he said:

"Don't forget, Lazer, to feed the girls at dinner and to bring
them somewhere to a movie show. About eleven o'clock at night wait
for me. I'll come for a talk. But if some one will be calling for
me extra, then you know my address--The Hermitage. Ring me up. But
if I'm not there for some reason, then run into Reiman's cafe, or
opposite, into the Hebrew dining room. I'll be eating GEFILTEH
FISCH there. Well, a lucky journey!"





CHAPTER III.


All the stories of Horizon about his commercial travelling were
simply brazen and glib lying. All the samples of drapers' goods,
suspenders gloire and buttons helios, the artificial teeth and
insertible eyes, served only as a shield, screening his real
activity--to wit, the traffic in the body of woman. True, at one
time, some ten years ago, he had travelled over Russia as the
representative for the dubious wines of some unknown firm; and
this activity had imparted to his tongue that free-and-easy
unconstraint for which, in general, travelling salesmen are
distinguished. This former activity had, as well, brought him up
against his real profession. In some way, while going to Rostov-
on-the-Don, he had contrived to make a very young sempstress fall
in love with him. This girl had not as yet succeeded in getting on
the official lists of the police, but upon love and her body she
looked without any lofty prejudices. Horizon, at that time
altogether a green youth, amorous and light-minded, dragged the
sempstress after him on his wanderings, full of adventures and
unexpected things. After half a year she palled upon him
dreadfully. She, just like a heavy burden, like a millstone, hung
around the neck of this man of energy, motion and aggressiveness.
In addition to that, there were the eternal scenes of jealousy,
mistrust, the constant control and tears ... the inevitable
consequences of long living together ... Then he began little by
little to beat his mate. At the first time she was amazed, but
from the second time quieted down, became tractable. It is known,
that "women of love" never know a mean in love relations. They are
either hysterical liars, deceivers, dissemblers, with a coolly-
perverted mind and a sinuous dark soul; or else unboundedly self-
denying, blindly devoted, foolish, naive animals, who know no
bounds either in concessions or loss of self-esteem. The
sempstress belonged to the second category, and Horizon was soon
successful, without great effort, in persuading her to go out on
the street to traffic in herself. And from that very evening, when
his mistress submitted to him and brought home the first five
roubles earned, Horizon experienced an unbounded loathing toward
her. It is remarkable, that no matter how many women Horizon met
after this--and several hundred of them had passed through his
hands--this feeling of loathing and masculine contempt toward them
would never forsake him. He derided the poor woman in every way,
and tortured her morally, seeking out the most painful spots. She
would only keep silent, sigh, weep, and getting down on her knees
before him, kiss his hands. And this wordless submission irritated
Horizon still more. He drove her away from him. She would not go
away. He would push her out into the street; but she, after an
hour or two, would come back shivering from cold, in a soaked hat,
in the turned-up brims of which the rain-water splashed as in
waterspouts. Finally, some shady friend gave Simon Yakovlevich the
harsh and crafty counsel which laid a mark on all the rest of his
life activity--to sell his mistress into a brothel. To tell the
truth, in going into this enterprise, Horizon almost disbelieved
at soul in its success. But contrary to his expectation, the
business could not have adjusted itself better. The proprietress
of an establishment (this was in Kharkov) willingly met his
proposition half-way. She had known long and well Simon
Yakovlevich, who played amusingly on the piano, danced splendidly,
and set the whole drawing room laughing with his pranks; but
chiefly, could, with unusually unabashed dexterity, make any
carousing party "shell out the coin." It only remained to convince
the mate of his life, and this proved the most difficult of all.
She did not want to detach herself from her beloved for anything;
threatened suicide, swore that she would burn his eyes out with
sulphuric acid, promised to go and complain to the chief of
police--and she really did know a few dirty little transactions of
Simon Yakovlevich's that smacked of capital punishment. Thereupon
Horizon changed his tactics. He suddenly became a tender,
attentive friend, an indefatigable lover. Then suddenly he fell
into black melancholy. The uneasy questionings of the woman he let
pass in silence; at first let drop a word as though by chance;
hinted in passing at some mistake of his life; and then began to
lie desperately and with inspiration. He said that the police were
watching him; that he could not get by the jail, and, perhaps,
even hard labour and the gallows; that it was necessary for him to
disappear abroad for several months. But mainly, what he persisted
in especially strongly, was some tremendous fantastic business, in
which he stood to make several hundred thousands of roubles. The
sempstress believed and became alarmed with that disinterested,
womanly, almost holy alarm, in which, with every woman, there is
so much of something maternal. It was not at all difficult now to
convince her that for Horizon to travel together with her
presented a great danger for him; and that it would be better for
her to remain here and to bide the time until the affairs of her
lover would adjust themselves fortuitously. After that to talk her
into hiding, as in the most trustworthy retreat, in a brothel,
where she would be in full safety from the police and the
detectives, was a mere nothing. One morning Horizon ordered her to
dress a little better, curl her hair, powder herself, put a little
rouge on her cheeks, and carried her off to a den, to his
acquaintance. The girl made a favourable impression there, and
that same day her passport was changed by the police to a so-
called yellow ticket. Having parted with her, after long embraces
and tears, Horizon went into the room of the proprietress and
received his payment, fifty roubles (although he had asked for two
hundred). But he did not grieve especially over the low price; the
main thing was, that he had found his calling at last, all by
himself, and had laid the cornerstone of his future welfare.

Of course, the woman sold by him just remained forever so in the
tenacious hands of the brothel. Horizon forgot her so thoroughly
that after only a year he could not even recall her face. But who
knows ... perhaps he merely pretended?

Now he was one of the chief speculators in the body of woman in
all the south of Russia. He had transactions with Constantinople
and with Argentine; he transported, in whole parties, girls from
the brothels of Odessa into Kiev; those from Kiev he brought over
into Kharkov; and those from Kharkov into Odessa. He it was also
who stuck away over second rate capital cities, and those
districts which were somewhat richer, the goods which had been
rejected or had grown too noticeable in the big cities. He had
struck up an enormous clientele, and in the number of his
consumers Horizon could have counted not a few people with a
prominent social position: lieutenant governors, colonels of the
gendarmerie, eminent advocates, well-known doctors, rich land-
owners, carousing merchants. All the shady world--the
proprietresses of brothels, cocottes solitaires, go-betweens,
madams of houses of assignation, souteneurs, touring actresses and
chorus girls--was as familiar to him as the starry sky to an
astronomer. His amazing memory, which permitted him prudently to
avoid notebooks, held in mind thousands of names, family names,
nicknames, addresses, characteristics. He knew to perfection the
tastes of all his highly placed consumers: some of them liked
unusually odd depravity, others paid mad sums for innocent girls,
for others still it was necessary to seek out girls below age. He
had to satisfy both the sadistic and the masochistic inclinations
of his clients, and at times to cater to altogether unnatural
sexual perversions, although it must be said that the last he
undertook only in rare instances which promised a large, undoubted
profit. Two or three times he had to sit in jail, but these
sessions went to his benefit; he not only did not lose his
rapacious high-handedness and springy energy in his transactions,
but with every year became more daring, inventive, and
enterprising. With the years to his brazen impetuousness was
joined a tremendous worldly business wisdom.

Fifteen times, during this period, he had managed to marry and
every time had contrived to take a decent dowry. Having possessed
himself of his wife's money, he, one fine day, would suddenly
vanish without a trace, and, if there was a possibility, he would
sell his wife profitably into a secret house of depravity or into
a chic public establishment. It would happen that the parents of
the deluded victim would search for him through the police. But
while inquiries would be carried on everywhere about him as
Shperling, he would already be travelling from town to town under
the name of Rosenblum. During the time of his activity, in despite
of an enviable memory, he had changed so many names that he had
not only forgotten what year he had been Nathanielson, and during
what Bakalyar, but even his own name was beginning to seem to him
one of his pseudonyms.

It was remarkable, that he did not find in his profession anything
criminal or reprehensible. He regarded it just as though he were
trading in herrings, lime, flour, beef or lumber. In his own
fashion he was pious. If time permitted, he would with assiduity
visit the synagogue of Fridays. The Day of Atonement, Passover,
and the Feast of the Tabernacles were invariably and reverently
observed by him everywhere wherever fate might have cast him. His
mother, a little old woman, and a hunch-backed sister, were left
to him in Odessa, and he undeviatingly sent them now large, now
small sums of money, not regularly but pretty frequently, from all
towns from Kursk to Odessa and from Warsaw to Samara. Considerable
savings of money had already accumulated to him in the Credit
Lyonnaise, and he gradually increased them, never touching the
interest. But to greed or avarice he was almost a stranger. He was
attracted to the business rather by its tang, risk and a
professional self-conceit. To the women he was perfectly
indifferent, although he understood and could value them, and in
this respect resembled a good chef, who together with a fine
understanding of the business, suffers from a chronic absence of
appetite. To induce, to entice a woman, to compel her to do all
that he wanted, did not require any efforts on his part; they came
of themselves to his call and became in his hands passive,
obedient and yielding. In his treatment of them a certain firm,
unshakable, self-assured aplomb had been worked out, to which they
submitted just as a refractory horse submits instinctively to the
voice, glance, stroking of an experienced horseman.

He drank very moderately, and without company never drank. Toward
eating he was altogether indifferent. But, of course, as with
every man, he had a little weakness of his own: he was
inordinately fond of dress and spent no little money on his
toilet. Modish collars of all possible fashions, cravats, diamond
cuff links, watch charms, the underwear of a dandy, and chic
footwear constituted his main distractions.

From the depot he went straight to The Hermitage. The hotel
porters, in blue blouses and uniform caps, carried his things into
the vestibule. Following them, he too entered, arm in arm with his
wife; both smartly attired, imposing, but he just simply
magnificent, in his wide, bell-shaped English overcoat, in a new
broad-brimmed panama, holding negligently in his hand a small cane
with a silver handle in the form of a naked woman.

"You ain't supposed to be here without a permit for your
residence," said an enormous, stout doorkeeper, looking down upon
him from above and preserving on his face a sleepy and immovably-
frigid expression.

"Ach, Zachar! Again 'you ain't supposed to!'" merrily exclaimed
Horizon, and patted the giant on his shoulder. "What does it mean,
'you ain't supposed to'? Every time you shove this same 'you ain't
supposed to' at me. I must be here for three days in all. Soon as
I conclude the rent agreement with Count Ipatiev, right away I go
away. God be with you! Live even all by yourself in all your
rooms. But you just give a look, Zachar, what a toy I brought you
from Odessa! You'll be just tickled with it!"

With a careful, deft, accustomed movement he thrust a gold piece
into the doorkeeper's hand, who was already holding it behind his
back, ready and folded in the form of a little boat.

The first thing that Horizon did upon installing himself in the
large, spacious room with an alcove, was to put out into the
corridor at the door of the room six pairs of magnificent shoes,
saying to the bell-hop who ran up in answer to the bell:

"Immediately all should be cleaned! So it should shine like a
mirror! They call you Timothy, I think? Then you should know me--
if you work by me it will never go for nothing. So it should shine
like a mirror!"





CHAPTER IV.


Horizon lived at the Hotel Hermitage for not more than three days
and nights, and during this time he managed to see some three
hundred people. His arrival seemed to enliven the big, gay port
city. To him came the keepers of employment offices for servants,
the proprietresses of cheap hotels, and old, experienced go-
betweens, grown gray in the trade in women. Not so much out of an
interest in booty as out of professional pride, Horizon tried, at
all costs, to bargain for as much profit as possible, to buy a
woman as cheaply as possible. Of course, to receive ten, fifteen
roubles more was not the reason for him, but the mere thought that
competitor Yampolsky would receive at the sale more than he
brought him into a frenzy.

After his arrival, the next day, he set off to Mezer the
photographer, taking with him the straw-like girl Bella, and had
pictures taken in various poses together with her; at which for
every negative he received three roubles, while he gave the woman
a rouble. After that he rode off to Barsukova.

This was a woman, or, speaking more correctly, a retired wench,
whose like can be found only in the south of Russia; neither a
Pole nor a Little Russian; already sufficiently old and rich in
order to allow herself the luxury of maintaining a husband (and
together with him a cabaret), a handsome and kindly little Pole.
Horizon and Barsukova met like old friends. They had, it seemed,
no fear, no shame, no conscience when they conversed with each
other.

"Madam Barsukova! I can offer you something special! Three women:
one a large brunette, very modest; another a little one, a blonde,
but who, you understand, is ready for everything; the third is a
woman of mystery, who merely smiles and doesn't say anything, but
promises much and is a beauty!"

Madam Barsukova was gazing at him with mistrust, shaking her head.

"Mister Horizon! What are you trying to fill my head with? Do you
want to do the same with me that you did last time?"

"By God, I should live so, how I want to deceive you! But that's
not the main thing. I'm also offering you a perfectly educated
woman. Do with her what you like. In all probability you'll find a
connoisseur."

Barsukova smiled artfully and asked:

"Again a wife?"

"No. But she's of the nobility."

"Then that means unpleasantnesses with the police again?"

"Ach! My God! I don't take big money from you; all the three for a
lousy thousand roubles."

"Well, let's talk frankly; five hundred. I don't want to buy a cat
in a bag."

"It seems, Madam Barsukova, that it isn't the first time you and I
have done business together, I won't deceive you and will bring
her here right away. Only I beg you not to forget that you're my
aunt, and please work in that direction. I won't be more than
three days here in the city."

Madam Barsukova, with all her breasts, bellies and chins, began to
sway merrily.

"We won't dicker over trifles. All the more so since you don't
deceive me, nor I you. There's a great demand for women now. What
would you say, Mister Horizon, if I offered you some red wine?"

"Thank you, Madam Barsukova, with pleasure."

"Let's talk a while like old friends. Tell me, how much do you
make a year?"

"Ach, madam, what shall I say? Twelve, twenty thousand,
approximately. But think what tremendous expenses there are in
constantly travelling."

"Do you put away a little?"

"Well, that's trifles; some two or three thousand a year."

"I thought ten, twenty ..."

Horizon grew wary. He sensed that he was beginning to be drawn out
and asked insidiously:

"But why does this interest you?"

Anna Michailovna pressed the button of an electric bell and
ordered the dressy maid to bring coffee with steamed cream and a
bottle of Chambertaine. She knew the tastes of Horizon. Then she
asked:

"Do you know Mr. Shepsherovich?"

Horizon simply pounced upon her.

"My God! Who don't know Shepsherovich! This is a god, this is a
genius!"

And, having become animated, forgetting that he was being dragged
into a trap, he began speaking exaltedly:

"Just imagine what Shepsherovich did last year! He carried to
Argentine thirty women from Kovno, Vilno, Zhitomir. Each one of
them he sold at a thousand roubles--a total, madam--count it--of
thirty thousand! Do you think Shepsherovich calmed down with this?
For this money, in order to repay his expenses on the steamer, he
bought several negresses and stuck them about in Moscow,
Petersburg, Kiev, Odessa, and Kharkov. But, you know, madam, this
isn't a man, but an eagle. There's a man who can do business!"

Barsukova caressingly laid her hand on his knee. She had been
waiting for this moment and said to him amicably:

"And so I propose to you, Mr.----however, I don't know how you are
called now..."

"Horizon, let's say..."

"So I propose to you, Mr. Horizon--could you find some innocent
girls among yours? There's an enormous demand for them now. I'm
playing an open hand with you. We won't stop at money. Now it's in
fashion. Notice, Horizon, your lady clients will be returned to
you in exactly the same state in which they were. This, you
understand, is a little depravity, which I can in no way make out
..."

Horizon cast down his eyes, rubbed his head, and said:

"You see, I've a wife ... You've almost guessed it."

"So. But why almost?"

"I'm ashamed to confess, that she--how shall I say it ... she is
my bride ..."

Barsukova gaily burst into laughter.

"You know, Horizon, I couldn't at all expect that you're such a
nasty villain! Let's have your wife, it's all the same. But is it
possible that you've really refrained?"

"A thousand?" asked Horizon seriously.

"Ah! What trifles; a thousand let's say. But tell me, will I be
able to manage her?"

"Nonsense!" said Horizon self-assuredly. "Let's again suppose that
you're my aunt, and I leave my wife with you. Just imagine, Madam
Barsukova, that this woman is in love with me like a cat. And if
you'll tell her, that for my good she must do so and so and thus
and thus--then there won't be no arguments!"

Apparently, there was nothing more for them to talk over. Madam
Barsukova brought out a promissory note, whereon she with
difficulty wrote her name, her father's name, and her last name.
The promissory note, of course, was fantastic; but there is a tie,
a welding, an honour among thieves. In such deals people do not
deceive. Death threatens otherwise. It is all the same, whether in
prison, or on the street, or in a brothel.

Right after that, just like an apparition out of a trapdoor,
appeared the friend of her heart, the master of the cabaret, a
young little Pole, with moustaches twirled high. They drank some
wine, talked a bit about the fair, about the exposition,
complained a little about bad business. After that Horizon
telephoned to his room in the hotel, and called out his wife. He
introduced her to his aunt and his aunt's second cousin, and said
that mysterious political reasons were calling him out of town. He
tenderly kissed Sarah, shed a tear, and rode away.





CHAPTER V.


With the arrival of Horizon (however, God knows how he was called:
Gogolevich, Gidalevich, Okunev, Rosmitalsky), in a word, with the
arrival of this man everything changed on Yamskaya Street.
Enormous shufflings commenced. From Treppel girls were transferred
to Anna Markovna, from Anna Markovna into a rouble establishment,
and from the rouble establishment into a half-rouble one. There
were no promotions: only demotions. At each change of place
Horizon earned from five to a hundred roubles. Verily, he was
possessed of an energy equal, approximately, to the waterfall of
Imatra! Sitting in the daytime at Anna Markovna's, he was saying,
squinting from the smoke of the cigarette, and swinging one leg
crossed over the other:

"The question is ... What do you need this same Sonka for? It's no
place for her in a decent establishment. If we'll float her down
the stream, then you'll make a hundred roubles for yourself, I
twenty-five for myself. Tell me frankly, she isn't in demand, is
she, now?"

"Ah, Mr. Shatzky! You can always talk a person over! But just
imagine, I'm sorry for her. Such a nice girl ..."

Horizon pondered for a moment. He was seeking an appropriate
citation and suddenly let out:

"'Give the falling a shove!' [Footnote: Horizon is quoting a
Nietzscheism of Gorky's.--TRANS.] And I'm convinced, Madam
Shaibes, that there's no demand of any sort for her."

Isaiah Savvich, a little, sickly, touchy old man, but in moments
of need very determined, supported Horizon:

"And that's very simple. There is really no demand of any sort for
her. Think it over for yourself, Annechka; her outfit costs fifty
roubles, Mr. Shatzky will receive twenty-five roubles, fifty
roubles will be left for you and me. And, glory be to God, we have
done with her! At least, she won't be compromising our
establishment."

In such a way Sonka the Rudder, avoiding a rouble establishment,
was transferred into a half-rouble one, where all kinds of riff-
raff made sport of the girls at their own sweet will, whole nights
through. There tremendous health and great nervous force were
requisite. Sonka once began shivering from terror, in the night,
when Thekla, a mountain of a woman of some two hundred pounds,
jumped out into the yard to fulfill a need of nature, and cried
out to the housekeeper who was passing by her:

"Housekeeper, dear! Listen--the thirty-sixth man! ... Don't
forget!"

Fortunately, Sonka was not disturbed much; even in this
establishment she was too homely. No one paid any attention to her
splendid eyes, and they took her only in those instances when
there was no other at hand. The pharmacist sought her out and came
every evening to her. But cowardice, or a special Hebrew
fastidiousness, or, perhaps, even physical aversion, would not
permit him to take the girl and carry her away with him from the
house. He would sit whole nights through near her, and, as of
yore, patiently waited until she would return from a chance guest;
created scenes of jealousy for her and yet loved her still, and,
sticking in the daytime behind the counter in his drug store and
rolling some stinking pills or other, ceaselessly thought of her
and yearned.





CHAPTER VI.


Immediately at the entrance to a suburban cabaret an artificial
flower bed shone with vari-colored lights, with electric bulbs
instead of flowers; and just such another fiery alley of wide,
half-round arches, narrowing toward the end, led away from it into
the depths of the garden. Further on was a broad, small square,
strewn with yellow sand; to the left an open stage, a theatre, and
a shooting gallery; straight ahead a stand for the military band
(in the form of a seashell) and little booths with flowers and
beer; to the right the long terrace of the restaurant. Electric
globes from their high masts illuminated the small square with a
pale, dead-white brightness. Against their frosted glass, with
wire nets stretched over them, beat clouds of night moths, whose
shadows--confused and large--hovered below, on the ground. Hungry
women, too lightly, dressily, and fancifully attired, preserving
on their faces an expression of care-free merriment or haughty,
offended unapproachability, strolled back and forth in pairs, with
a walk already tired and dragging.

All the tables in the restaurant were taken--and over them floated
the continuous noise of knives upon plates and a motley babel,
galloping in waves. It smelt of rich and pungent kitchen fumes. In
the middle of the restaurant, upon a stand, Roumanians in red
frocks were playing; all swarthy, white-toothed, with the faces of
whiskered, pomaded apes, with their hair licked down. The director
of the orchestra, bending forward and affectedly swaying, was
playing upon a violin and making unseemly sweet eyes at the
public--the eyes of a man-prostitute. And everything together--
this abundance of tiresome electric lights, the exaggeratedly
bright toilettes of the ladies, the odours of modish, spicy
perfumes, this ringing music, with willful slowings up of the
tempo, with voluptuous swoonings in the transitions, with the
tempestuous passages screwed up--everything fitted the one to the
other, forming a general picture of insane and stupid luxury, a
setting for an imitation of a gay, unseemly carouse.

Above, around the entire hall, ran open galleries, upon which, as
upon little balconies, opened the doors of the private cabinets.
In one of these cabinets four were sitting--two ladies and two
men; an artiste known to all Russia, the cantatrice Rovinskaya, a
large, handsome woman, with long, green, Egyptian eyes, and a
long, red, sensuous mouth, the lips of which were rapaciously
drooping at the corners; the baroness Tefting, little, exquisite,
pale--she was everywhere seen with the artiste; the famous lawyer
Ryazanov; and Volodya Chaplinsky, a rich young man of the world, a
composer-dilettante, the author of several darling little ballads
and many witticisms upon the topics of the day, which circulated
all over town.

The walls of the cabinet were red, with a gold design. On the
table, among the lighted candelabra, two white, tarred necks of
bottles stuck up out of an electroplated vase, which had sweated
from the cold, and the light in a tenuous gold played in the
shallow goblets of wine. Outside, near the doors, a waiter was on
duty, leaning against the wall; while the stout, tall, important
maitre d'hotel, on whose right little finger, always sticking out,
sparkled a huge diamond, would frequently stop at these doors, and
attentively listen with one ear to what was going on in the
cabinet.

The baroness, with a bored, pale face, was listlessly gazing
through a lorgnette down at the droning, chewing, swarming crowd.
Among the red, white, blue and straw-coloured feminine dresses the
uniform figures of the men resembled large, squat, black beetles.
Rovinskaya negligently, yet at the same time intently as well, was
looking down upon the stand and the spectators, and her face
expressed fatigue, ennui, and perhaps also that satiation with all
spectacles, which are such matters of course to celebrities. The
splendid, long, slender fingers of her left hand were lying upon
the crimson velvet of the box-seat. Emeralds of a rare beauty hung
upon them so negligently that it seemed as though they would fall
off at any second, and suddenly she began laughing.

"Look" she said; "what a funny figure, or, to put it more
correctly, what a funny profession! There, there, that one who's
playing on a 'syrinx of seven reeds.'"

Everyone looked in the direction of her hand. And really, the
picture was funny enough. Behind the Roumanian orchestra was
sitting a stout, whiskered man, probably the father, and perhaps
even the grandfather, of a numerous family, and with all his might
was whistling into seven little pipes glued together. As it was
difficult for him, probably, to move this instrument between his
lips, he therefore, with an unusual rapidity, turned his head now
to the left, now to the right.

"An amazing occupation," said Rovinskaya. "Well now, Chaplinsky,
you try to toss your head about like that."

Volodya Chaplinsky, secretly and hopelessly in love with the
artiste, immediately began obediently and zealously to do this,
but after half a minute desisted.

"It's impossible," he said, "either long training, or, perhaps,
hereditary abilities, are necessary for this."

The baroness during this time was tearing away the petals of her
rose and throwing them into a goblet; then, with difficulty
suppressing a yawn, she said, making just the least bit of a wry
face:

"But, my God, how drearily they divert themselves in our K--!
Look: no laughter, no singing, no dances. Just like some herd
that's been driven here, in order to be gay on purpose!"

Ryazanov listlessly took his goblet, sipped it a little, and
answered apathetically in his enchanting voice:

"Well, and is it any gayer in your Paris, or Nice? Why, it must be
confessed--mirth, youth and laughter have vanished forever out of
human life, and it is scarcely possible that they will ever
return. One must regard people with more patience, it seems to me.
Who knows, perhaps for all those sitting here, below, the present
evening is a rest, a holiday?"

"The speech for the defense," put in Chaplinsky in his calm
manner.

But Rovinskaya quickly turned around to the men, and her long
emerald eyes narrowed. And this with her served as a sign of
wrath, from which even crowned personages committed follies at
times. However, she immediately restrained herself and continued
languidly:

"I don't understand what you are talking about. I don't understand
even what we came here for. For there are no longer any spectacles
in the world. Now I, for instance, have seen bull-fights in
Seville, Madrid and Marseilles--an exhibition which does not evoke
anything save loathing. I have also seen boxing and wrestling
nastiness and brutality. I also happened to participate in a tiger
hunt, at which I sat under a baldachin on the back of a big, wise
white elephant ... in a word, you all know this well yourselves.
And out of all my great, chequered, noisy life, from which I have
grown old ..."

"Oh, what are you saying, Ellena Victorovna!" said Chaplinsky with
a tender reproach.

"Abandon compliments, Volodya! I know myself that I'm still young
and beautiful of body, but, really, it seems to me at times that I
am ninety. So worn out has my soul become. I continue. I say, that
during all my life only three strong impressions have sunk into my
soul. The first, while still a girl, when I saw a cat stealing
upon a cock-sparrow, and I with horror and with interest watched
its movements and the vigilant gaze of the bird. Up to this time I
don't know myself which I sympathized with more: the skill of the
cat or the slipperiness of the sparrow. The cock-sparrow proved
the quicker. In a moment he flew up on a tree and began from there
to pour down upon the cat such sparrow swearing that I would have
turned red for shame if I had understood even one word. While the
cat, as though it had been wronged, stuck up its tail like a
chimney and tried to pretend to itself that nothing out of the way
had taken place. Another time I had to sing in an opera a duet
with a certain great artist ..."

"With whom?" asked the baroness quickly.

"Isn't it all the same? Of what need names? And so, when he and I
were singing, I felt all of me in the sway of genius. How
wonderfully, into what a marvelous harmony, did our voices blend!
Ah! It is impossible to describe this impression. Probably, it
happens but once in a lifetime. According to the role, I had to
weep, and I wept with sincere, genuine tears. And when, after the
curtain, he walked up to me and patted my hair with his big warm
hand and with his enchanting, radiant smile said, 'Splendid! for
the first time in my life have I sung so' ... and so I--and I am a
very proud being--I kissed his hand. And the tears were still
standing in my eyes ..."

"And the third?" asked the baroness, and her eyes lit up with the
evil sparks of jealousy.

"Ah, the third," answered the artiste sadly, "the third is as
simple as simple can be. During the last season I lived at Nice,
and so I saw Carmen on the open stage at Frejus with the
anticipation of Cecile Ketten, who is now," the artiste earnestly
made the sign of the cross, "dead--I don't really know,
fortunately or unfortunately for herself?"

Suddenly, in a moment, her magnificent eyes filled with tears and
began to shine with a magic green light, such as the evening star
gives forth, on warm summer twilights. She turned her face around
to the stage, and for some time her long, nervous fingers
convulsively squeezed the upholstery of the barrier of the box.
But when she again turned around to her friends, her eyes were
already dry, and the enigmatic, vicious and wilful lips were
resplendent with an unconstrained smile.

Then Ryazanov asked her politely, in a tender but purposely calm
tone:

"But then, Ellena Victorovna, your tremendous fame, admirers, the
roar of the mob ... finally, that delight which you afford to your
spectators. Is it possible that even this does not titillate your
nerves?"

"No, Ryazanov," she answered in a tired voice. "You know no less
than myself what this is worth. A brazen interviewer, who needs
passes for his friends, and, by the way, twenty-five roubles in an
envelope. High school boys and girls, students and young ladies
attending courses, who beg you for autographed photographs. Some
old blockhead with a general's rank, who hums loudly with me
during my aria. The eternal whisper behind you, when you pass by:
'there she is, that same famous one!' Anonymous letters, the
brazenness of back-stage habitues ... why, you can't enumerate
everything! But surely, you yourself are often beset by female
psychopathics of the court-room?"

"Yes," said Ryazanov decisively.

"That's all there is to it. But add to that the most terrible
thing, that every time I have come to feel a genuine inspiration,
I tormentingly feel on the spot the consciousness that I'm
pretending and grimacing before people ... And the fear of the
success of your rival? And the eternal dread of losing your voice,
of straining it or catching a cold? The eternal tormenting bother
of throat bandages? No, really, it is heavy to bear renown on
one's shoulders."

"But the artistic fame?" retorted the lawyer. "The might of
genius! This, verily, is a true moral might, which is above the
might of any king on earth!"

"Yes, yes, of course you're right, my dear. But fame, celebrity,
are sweet only at a distance, when you only dream about them. But
when you have attained them you feel only their thorns. But then,
with what anguish you feel every dram of their decrease. And I
have forgotten to say something else. Why, we artists undergo a
sentence at hard labour. In the morning, exercises; in the
daytime, rehearsals; and then there's scarcely time for dinner and
you're due for the performance. An hour or so for reading or such
diversion as you and I are having now, may be snatched only by a
miracle. And even so... the diversion is altogether of the
mediocre..."

She negligently and wearily made a slight gesture with the fingers
of the hand lying on the barrier.

Volodya Chaplinsky, agitated by this conversation, suddenly asked:

"Yes, but tell me, Ellena Victorovna, what would you want to
distract your imagination and ennui?"

She looked at him with her enigmatic eyes and answered quietly,
even a trifle shyly, it seemed:

"Formerly, people lived more gaily and did not know prejudices of
any sort. Well, it seems to me that then I would have been in my
place and would have lived with a full life. O, ancient Rome!"

No one understood her, save Ryazanov, who, without looking at her,
slowly pronounced in his velvety voice, like that of an actor, the
classical, universally familiar, Latin phrase:

"Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant!"

"Precisely! I love you very much, Ryazanov, because you are a
clever child. You will always catch a thought in its flight;
although, I must say, that this isn't an especially high property
of the mind. And really, two beings come together, the friends of
yesterday, who had conversed with each other and eaten at the same
table, and this day one of them must perish. You understand
depart from life forever. But they have neither malice nor fear.
There is the most real, magnificent spectacle, which I can only
picture to myself!"

"How much cruelty there is in you," said the baroness
meditatively.

"Well, nothing can be done about it now! My ancestors were
cavaliers and robbers. However, shan't we go away now?"

They all went out of the garden. Volodya Chaplinsky ordered his
automobile called. Ellena Victorovna was leaning upon his arm. And
suddenly she asked:

"Tell me, Volodya, where do you usually go when you take leave of
so-called decent women?"

Volodya hemmed and hawed. However, he knew positively that he
could not lie to Rovinskaya.

"M-m-m ... I'm afraid of offending your hearing. To the Tzigani,
for instance ... to night cabarets ..."

"And somewhere else? Worse?"

"Really, you put me in an awkward position. From the time that
I've become so madly in love with you ..."

"Leave out the romancingl"

"Well, how shall I say it?" murmured Volodya, feeling that he was
turning red, not only in the face, but with his body, his back.
"Well, of course, to the women. Now, of course, this does not
occur with me personally ..."

Rovinskaya maliciously pressed Chaplinsky's elbow to her side.

"To a brothel?"

Volodya did not answer anything. Then she said:

"And so, you'll carry us at once over there in the automobile and
acquaint us with this existence, which is foreign to me. But
remember, that I rely upon your protection."

The remaining two agreed to this, unwillingly, in all probability;
but there was no possibility of opposing Ellena Victorovna. She
always did everything that she wanted to. And then they had all
heard and knew that in Petersburg carousing worldly ladies, and
even girls, permit themselves, out of a modish snobbism, pranks
far worse than the one which Rovinskaya had proposed.





CHAPTER VII.


On the way to Yamskaya Street Rovinskaya said to Chaplinsky:

"You'll bring me at first into the most luxurious place, then into
a medium one, and then into the filthiest."

"My dear Ellena Victorovna," warmly retorted Chaplinsky, "I'm
ready to do everything for you. It is without false boasting when
I say that I would give my life away at your order, ruin my career
and position at a mere sign of yours ... But I dare not bring you
to these houses. Russian manners are coarse, and often simply
inhuman manners. I'm afraid that you will be insulted by some
pungent, unseemly word, or that a chance visitor will play some
senseless prank before you ..."

"Ah, my God," impatiently interrupted Rovinskaya; "when I was
singing in London, there were many at that time paying court to
me, and I did not hesitate to go and see the filthiest dens of
Whitechapel in a choice company. I will say, that I was treated
there very carefully and anticipatingly. I will also say, that
there were with me at that time two English aristocrats; lords,
both sportsmen, both people unusually strong physically and
morally, who, of course, would never have allowed a woman to be
offended. However, perhaps you, Volodya, are of the race of
cowards?"

Chaplinsky flared up:

"Oh, no, no, Ellena Victorovna. I forewarned you only out of love
for you. But if you command, then I'm ready to go where you will.
Not only on this dubious undertaking, but even very death itself."

By this time they had already driven up to the most luxurious
establishment in the Yamkas--Treppel's. Ryazanov the lawyer said,
smiling with his usual ironic smile:

"And so, the inspection of the menagerie begins."

They were led into a cabinet with crimson wall paper, and on the
wall paper was repeated, in the "empire" style, a golden design in
the form of small laurel wreaths. And at once Rovinskaya
recognized, with the keen memory of an artiste, that exactly the
same paper had also been in that cabinet in which they had just
been sitting.

Four German women from the Baltic provinces came out. All of them
stout, full-breasted, blonde, powdered, very important and
respectful. The conversation did not catch on at first. The girls
sat immovable, like carvings of stone, in order to pretend with
all their might that they were respectable ladies. Even the
champagne, which Ryazanov called for, did not improve the mood.
Rovinskaya was the first to come to the aid of the party. Turning
to the stoutest, fairest German of all, who resembled a loaf, she
asked politely in German:

"Tell me, where were you born? Germany, in all probability?"

"No, gnadige Frau, I am from Riga."

"What compels you to serve here, then? Not poverty, I hope?"

"Of course not, gnadige Frau. But, you understand, my bridegroom,
Hans, works as a kellner in a restaurant-automat, and we are too
poor to be married now. I bring my savings to a bank, and he does
the same. When we have saved the ten thousand roubles we need, we
will open our own beer-hall, and, if God will bless us, then we
shall allow ourselves the luxury of having children. Two children.
A boy and a girl."

"But, listen to me, mein Fraulein!" Rovinskaya was amazed. "You
are young, handsome, know two languages ..."

"Three, madam," proudly put in the German. "I know Esthonian as
well. I finished the municipal school and three classes of high
school."

"Well, then, you see, you see ..." Rovinskaya became heated. "With
such an education you could always find a place with everything
found, and about thirty roubles. Well, in the capacity of a
housekeeper, bonne, senior clerk in a good store, a cashier, let's
say ... And if your future bridegroom ... Fritz ..."

"Hans, madam ..."

"If Hans proved to be an industrious and thrifty man, then it
would not be at all hard for you to get up on your feet
altogether, after three or four years. What do you think?"

"Ah, madam, you are a little mistaken. You have overlooked that,
in the very best of positions, I, even denying myself in
everything, will not be able to put aside more than fifteen,
twenty roubles a month; whereas here, with a prudent economy, I
gain up to a hundred roubles and at once carry them away with a
book into the savings bank. And besides that, just imagine,
gnadige Frau, what a humiliating position to be the servant in a
house! Always to depend on the caprice or the disposition of the
spirits of the masters! And the master always pesters you with
foolishness. Pfui! .. And the mistress is jealous, picks, and
scolds."

"No ... I don't understand ..." meditatively drawled Rovinskaya,
without looking the German in the eyes, but casting hers on the
floor. "I've heard a great deal of your life here, in these ...
what do you call them? .. these houses. They say it is something
horrible. That you're forced to love the most repulsive, old and
hideous men, that you are plucked and exploited in the most cruel
manner ..."

"Oh, never, madam ... Each one of us has an account book, wherein
is written accurately the income and expense. During last month I
earned a little more than five hundred roubles. As always, two-
thirds went to the proprietress for board, quarters, fuel, light,
linen ... There remains to me more than a hundred and fifty, it is
not so? Fifty I spent on costumes and all sorts of trifles. A
hundred I save. What exploitation is it, then, madam, I ask you?
And if I do not like a man at all--true, there are some who are
exceedingly nasty--I can always say I am sick, and instead of me
will go one of the newest girls ..."

"But then ... pardon me, I do not know your name ..."

"Elsa."

"They say, that you're treated very roughly ... beaten at times
... compelled to do that which you don't want to and which is
repulsive to you?"

"Never, madam!" dropped Elsa haughtily. "We all live here as a
friendly family of our own. We are all natives of the same land or
relatives, and God grant that many should live so in their own
families as we live here. True, on Yamskaya Street there happen
various scandals and fights and misunderstandings. But that's
there ... in these ... in the rouble establishments. The Russian
girls drink a lot and always have one lover. And they do not think
at all of their future."

"You are prudent, Elsa," said Rovinskaya in an oppressed tone.
"All this is well. But, what of the chance disease? Infection?
Why, that is death? And how can you guess?"

"And again--no, madam. I won't let a man into my bed before I make
a detailed medical inspection of him ... I am guaranteed, at the
least, against seventy-five per cent."

"The devil!" suddenly exclaimed Rovinskaya with heat and hit the
table with her fist. "But, then, what of your Albert ..."

"Hans," the German corrected her meekly.

"Pardon me ... Your Hans surely does not rejoice greatly over the
fact that you are living here, and that you betray him every day?"

Elsa looked at her with sincere, lively amazement.

"But gnadige Frau ... I have never yet betrayed him! It is other
lost wenches, especially Russian, who have lovers for themselves,
on whom they spend their hard-earned money. But that I should ever
let myself go as far as that? Pfui!"

"A greater fall I have not imagined!" said Rovinskaya loudly and
with aversion, getting up. "Pay gentlemen, and let's go on from
here."

When they had gone out into the street, Volodya took her arm and
said in an imploring voice:

"For God's sake, isn't one experiment enough for you?"

"Oh, what vulgarity! What vulgarity!"

"That's why I'm saying, let's drop this experiment."

"No, in any case I am going through with it to the finish. Show me
something simpler, more of the medium."

Volodya Chaplinsky, who was all the time in a torment over Ellena
Victorovna, offered the most likely thing--to drop into the
establishment of Anna Markovna, which was only ten steps away.

But it was just here that strong impressions awaited them. Simeon
did not want to let them in, and only several gold pieces, which
Ryazanov gave him, softened him. They took up a cabinet, almost
the same as at Treppel's, only somewhat shabbier and more faded.
At the command of Emma Edwardovna, the girls were herded into the
cabinet. But it was the same as letting a goat into a truck-garden
or mixing soda and acid. The main mistake, however, was that they
let Jennka in there as well--wrathful, irritated, with impudent
fires in her eyes. The modest, quiet Tamara was the last to walk
in, with her shy and depraved smile of a Monna Lisa. In the end,
almost the entire personnel of the establishment gathered in the
cabinet. Rovinskaya no longer risked asking "How did you come to
this life?" But it must be said, that the inmates of the house met
her with an outward hospitality. Ellena Victorovna asked them to
sing their usual canonical songs, and they willingly sang:

    Monday now is come again,
    They're supposed to get me out;
    Doctor Krassov won't let me out,
    Well, the devil take him then.

And further:

    Poor little, poor little, poor little me,
    The public house is closed,
    My head's aching me...

    The love of a loafer
    Is spice, is spice;
    But the prostitute
    Is as cold as ice.
    Ha-ha-ha!

    They came together
    Matched as well as might be,
    She is a prostitute,
    A pickpocket he.
    Ha-ha-ha!

    Now morning has come,
    He is planning a theft;
    While she lies in her bed
    And laughs like she's daft.
    Ha-ha-ha!

    Comes morning, the laddie
    Is led to the pen;
    But for the prostitute
    His pals await then.
    Ha-ha-ha! ...

[Footnote: While there can be but little doubt that these four
stanzas are an actual transcript from life, Heinrich Heine's "Ein
Weib" is such a striking parallel that it may be reproduced here
as a matter of interest. The translation is by Mr. Louis
Untermeyer.--Trans.

    A WOMAN

    They loved each other beyond belief--
    She was a strumpet, he was a thief;
    Whenever she thought of his tricks, thereafter
    She'd throw herself on the bed with laughter.

    The day was spent with a reckless zest;
    At night she lay upon his breast.
    So when they took him, a while thereafter
    She watched at the window--with laughter.

    He sent word pleading "Oh come to me,
    I need you, need you bitterly,
    Yes, here and in the hereafter."
    Her little head shook with laughter.

    At six in the morning they swung him high;
    At seven the turf on his grave was dry;
    At eight, however, she quaffed her
    Red wine and sang with laughter!]

And still further a convict song:

    I'm a ruined laddie,
    Ruined for alway;
    While year after year
    The days go away.

And also:

    Don't you cry, my Mary,
    You'll belong to me;
    When I've served the army
    I will marry thee.

But here suddenly, to the general amazement, the stout Kitty,
usually taciturn, burst into laughter. She was a native of Odessa.

"Let me sing one song, too. It's sung by thieves and badger queens
in the drink shops on our Moldavanka and Peresip."

And in a horrible bass, in a rusty and unyielding voice, she began
to sing, making the most incongruous gestures, but, evidently,
imitating some cabaret cantatrice of the third calibre that she
had sometime seen:

    "Ah, I'll go to Dukovka,
    Sit down at the table,
    Now I throw my hat off,
    Toss it under table.
    Then I athk my dearie,
    'What will you drink, sweet?'
    But all the answer that she makes:
    'My head aches fit to split.'
    'I ain't a-athking you
    What your ache may be,
    But I am a-athking you
    What your drink may be:
    Will it be beer, or for wine shall I call,
    Or for violet wine, or nothing else at all?'"

And all would have turned out well, if suddenly Little White
Manka, in only her chemise and in white lace drawers, had not
burst into the cabinet. Some merchant, who the night before had
arranged a paradisaical night, was carousing with her, and the
ill-fated Benedictine, which always acted upon the girl with the
rapidity of dynamite, had brought her into the usual quarrelsome
condition. She was no longer "Little Manka" and "Little White
Manka," but she was "Manka the Scandaliste." Having run into the
cabinet, she suddenly, from unexpectedness, fell down on the
floor, and, lying on her back, burst into such sincere laughter
that all the rest burst out laughing as well. Yes. But this
laughter was not prolonged ... Manka suddenly sat up on the floor
and began to shout:

"Hurrah! new wenches have joined our place!"

This was altogether an unexpected thing. The baroness did a still
greater tactlessness. She said:

"I am a patroness of a convent for fallen girls, and therefore, as
a part of my duty, I must gather information about you."

But here Jennka instantly flared up:

"Get out of here right away, you old fool! You rag! You floor mop!
.. Your Magdalene asylums--they're worse than a prison. Your
secretaries use us, like dogs carrion. Your fathers, husbands, and
brothers come to us, and we infect them with all sorts of diseases
... Purposely .. And they in their turn infect you. Your female
superintendents live with the drivers, janitors and policemen,
while we are put in a cell if we happen to laugh or joke a little
among ourselves. And so, if you've come here as to a theatre, then
you must hear the truth out, straight to your face."

But Tamara calmly stopped her:

"Stop, Jennie, I will tell them myself ... Can it be that you
really think, baroness, that we are worse than the so-called
respectable women? A man comes to me, pays me two roubles for a
visit or five roubles for a night, and I don't in the least
conceal this, from any one in the world ... But tell me, baroness,
do you possibly know even one married lady with a family who isn't
in secret giving herself up either for the sake of passion to a
young man, or for the sake of money to an old one? I know very
well that fifty percent of you are kept by lovers, while the
remaining fifty, of those who are older, keep young lads. I also
know that many--ah, how many!--of you cohabit with your fathers,
brothers, and even sons, but these secrets you hide in some sort
of a hidden casket. And that's all the difference between us. We
are fallen, but we don't lie and don't pretend, but you all fall,
and lie to boot. Think it over for yourself; now--in whose favour
is this difference?"

"Bravo, Tamarochka, that's the way to serve them!" shouted Manka,
without getting up from the floor; dishevelled, fair, curly,
resembling at this moment a thirteen-year-old girl.

"Now, now!" urged Jennka as well, flashing with her flaming eyes.

"Why not, Jennechka? I'll go further than that. Out of us
scarcely, scarcely one in a thousand has committed abortion. But
all of you several times over. What? Or isn't that the truth? And
those of you who've done this, did it not out of desperation or
cruel poverty, but you simply were afraid of spoiling your figure
and beauty--that's your sole capital! Or else you've been seeking
only beastly carnal pleasure, while pregnancy and feeding
interfered with your giving yourself up to it!"

Rovinskaya became confused and uttered in a quick whisper:

"Faites attention, baronne, que dans sa position cette demoiselle
est instruite." [Footnote: "Pay attention, baroness, the girl is
rather educated for one of her position."]

"Figurez-vous, que moi, j'ai aussi remarque cet etrange visage.
Comme si je l'ai deja vu ... est-ce en reve? ... en demi-delire?
Ou dans sa petite enfance?" [Footnote: "Just imagine, I, too, have
remarked this strange face. But where have I seen it ... was it in
a dream? ... in semi-delirium? Or in her early infancy?"]

"Ne vous donnez pas la peine de chercher dans vos souvenirs,
baronne," Tamara suddenly interposed insolently. "Je puis de suite
vous venir aide. Rappelez-vous seulement Kharkoff, et la chambre
d'hotel de Koniakine, l'entrepreneur Solovieitschik, et le tenor
di grazzia ... A ce moment vous n'etiez pas encore m-me la baronne
de ... [Footnote: "Don't trouble to strain your memory, baroness.
I will come to your aid at once. Just recall Kharkov, a room in
Koniakine's hotel, the theatrical manager, Solovieitschik, and a
certain lyrical tenor ... At that time you were not yet baroness
de ..."] However, let's drop the French tongue ... You were a
common chorus girl and served together with me."

"Mais, dites-moi, au nom de dieu, comment vous trouvez vous ici,
Mademoiselle Marguerite." [Footnote: "But tell me, in God's name,
how you have come to be here, Mademoiselle Marguerite?"]

"Oh, they ask us about that every day. I just up and came to be
here ..."

And with an inimitable cynicism she asked:

"I trust you will pay for the time which we have passed with you?"

"No, may the devil take you!" suddenly shouted out Little White
Manka, quickly getting up from the rug.

And suddenly, pulling two gold pieces out of her stocking, she
flung them upon the table.

"There, you! .. I'm giving you that for a cab. Go away right now,
otherwise I'll break up all the mirrors and bottles here..."

Rovinskaya got up and said with sincere, warm tears in her eyes:

"Of course, we'll go away, and the lesson of Mlle. Marguerite will
prove of benefit to us. Your time will be paid for--take care of
it, Volodya. Still, you sang so much for us, that you must allow
me to sing for you as well."

Rovinskaya went up to the piano, took a few chords, and suddenly
began to sing the splendid ballad of Dargomyzhsky:

    "We parted then with pride--
    Neither with sighs nor words
    Proffered I thee reproach of jealousy ...
    We went apart for aye,
    Yet only if with thee
    I might but chance to meet! ..
    Ah, that with thee I might but chance to meet!

    "I weep not nor complain--
    To fate I bend my knee...
    I know not, if you loved,
    So greatly wronging me?
    Yet only if with thee
    I might but chance to meet! ...
    Ah, that with thee I might but chance to meet!"

This tender and passionate ballad, executed by a great artiste,
suddenly reminded all these women of their first love; of their
first fall; of a late leave-taking at a dawn in the spring, in the
chill of the morning, when the grass is gray from the dew, while
the red sky paints the tips of the birches a rosy colour; of last
embraces, so closely entwined, and of the unerring heart's
mournful whispers: "No, this will not be repeated, this will not
be repeated!" And the lips were then cold and dry, while the damp
mist of the morning lay upon the hair.

Silence seized Tamara; silence seized Manka the Scandaliste; and
suddenly Jennka, the most untamable of all the girls, ran up to
the artiste, fell down on her knees, and began to sob at her feet.

And Rovinskaya, touched herself, put her arms around her head and
said:

"My sister, let me kiss you!"

Jennka whispered something into her ear.

"Why, that's a silly trifle," said Rovinskaya. "A few months of
treatment and it will all go away."

"No, no, no ... I want to make all of them diseased. Let them all
rot and croak."

"Ah, my dear," said Rovinskaya, "I would not do that in your
place."

And now Jennka, the proud Jennka began kissing the knees and hands
of the artiste and was saying:

"Then why have people wronged me so? ... Why have they wronged me
so? Why? Why? Why?"

Such is the might of genius!

The only might which takes into its beautiful hands not the abject
reason, but the warm soul of man! The self-respecting Jennka was
hiding her face in Rovinskaya's dress; Little White Manka was
sitting meekly on a chair, her face covered with a handkerchief;
Tamara, with elbow propped on her knee and head bowed on the palm
of her hand, was intently looking down, while Simeon the porter,
who had been looking in against any emergency, only opened his
eyes wide in amazement.

Rovinskaya was quietly whispering into Jennka's very ear:

"Never despair. Sometimes things fall out so badly that there's
nothing for it but to hang one's self--but, just look, to-morrow
life has changed abruptly. My dear, my sister, I am now a world
celebrity. But if you only knew what seas of humiliation and
vileness I have had to wade through! Be well, then, my dear, and
believe in your star."

She bent down to Jennka and kissed her on the forehead. And never
afterwards could Volodya Chaplinsky, who had been watching this
scene with a painful tension, forget those warm and beautiful
rays, which at this moment kindled in the green, long, Egyptian
eyes of the artiste.

The party departed gloomily, but Ryazanov lingered behind for a
minute.

He walked up to Jennka, respectfully and gently kissed her hand,
and said:

"If possible, forgive our prank ... This, of course, will not be
repeated. But if you ever have need of me, I am always at your
service. Here is my visiting card. Don't stick it out on your
bureau; but remember, that from this evening on I am your friend."

And, having kissed Jennka's hand once more, he was the last to go
down the stairs.





CHAPTER VIII.


On Thursday, since very morning, a ceaseless, fine drizzle had
begun to fall, and so the leaves of the chestnuts, acacias, and
poplars had at once turned green. And, suddenly, it became somehow
dreamily quiet and protractedly tedious. Pensive and monotonous.

During this all the girls had gathered, as usual, in Jennka's
room. But something strange was going on within her. She did not
utter witticisms, did not laugh, did not read, as always, her
usual yellow-back novel which was now lying aimlessly either on
her breast or stomach; but was vicious, wrapped up in sadness, and
in her eyes blazed a yellow fire that spoke of hatred. In vain did
Little White Manka, Manka the Scandaliste, who adored her, try to
turn her attention to herself--Jennka seemed not to notice her,
and the conversation did not at all get on. It was depressing. But
it may have been that the August drizzle, which had steadily set
in for several weeks running, reacted upon all of them. Tamara sat
down on Jennka's bed, gently embraced her, and, having put her
mouth near her very ear, said in a whisper:

"What's the matter, Jennechka? I've seen for a long time that
something strange is going on in you. And Manka feels that too.
Just see, how she's wasted without your caressing. Tell me.
Perhaps I'll be able to help you in some way?"

Jennka closed her eyes and shook her head in negation. Tamara
moved away from her a little, but continued to stroke her shoulder
gently.

"It's your affair, Jennechka. I daren't butt into your soul. I
only asked because you're the only being who..."

Jennka with decision suddenly jumped out of bed, seized Tamara by
the hand and said abruptly and commandingly:

"All right! Let's get out of here for a minute. I'll tell you
everything. Girls, wait for us a little while."

In the light corridor Jennka laid her hands on the shoulders of
her mate and with a distorted, suddenly blanched face, said:

"Well, then, listen here: some one has infected me with syphilis."

"Oh, my poor darling. Long?"

"Long. Do you remember, when the students were here? The same ones
who started a row with Platonov? I found out about it for the
first time then. I found out in the daytime."

"Do you know," quietly remarked Tamara, "I almost guessed about
this, and particularly then, when you went down on your knees
before the singer and talked quietly about something with her. But
still, my dear Jennechka, you must attend to yourself."

Jennka wrathfully stamped her foot and tore in half the batiste
handkerchief which she had been nervously crumpling in her hands.

"No! Not for anything! I won't infect any one of you. You may have
noticed yourself, that during the last weeks I don't dine at the
common table, and that I wash and wipe the dishes myself. That's
why I'm trying to break Manka away from me, whom, you know, I love
sincerely, in the real way. But these two-legged skunks I infect
purposely, infect every evening, ten, fifteen of them. Let them
rot, let them carry the syphilis on to their wives, mistresses,
mothers--yes, yes, their mothers also, and their fathers, and
their governesses, and even their grand-grandmothers. Let them all
perish, the honest skunks!"

Tamara carefully and tenderly stroked Jennka's head. "Can it be
that you'll go the limit, Jennechka?"

"Yes. And without any mercy. All of you, however, don't have to be
afraid of me. I choose the man myself. The stupidest, the
handsomest, the richest and the most important, but not to one of
you will I let them go afterward. Oh! I make believe I'm so
passionate before them, that you'd burst out laughing if you saw.
I bite them, I scratch, I cry and shiver like an. insane woman.
They believe it, the pack of fools."

"It's your affair, it's your affair, Jennechka," meditatively
uttered Tamara, looking down. "Perhaps you're right, at that. Who
knows? But tell me, how did you get away from the doctor?"

Jennka suddenly turned away from her, pressed her face against the
angle of the window frame and suddenly burst into bitter, searing
tears--the tears of wrath and vengefulness--and at the same time
she spoke, gasping and quivering:

"Because ... because ... Because God has sent me especial luck: I
am sick there where, in all probability, no doctor can see. And
ours, besides that, is old and stupid..."

And suddenly, with some unusual effort of the will Jennka stopped
her tears just as unexpectedly as she had started crying.

"Come to me, Tamarochka," she said. "Of course, you won't chatter
too much?"

"Of course not."

And they returned into Jennka's room, both of them calm and
restrained.

Simeon walked into the room. He, contrary to his usual brazenness,
always bore himself with a shade of respect toward Jennka. Simeon
said:

"Well, now, Jennechka, their Excellency has come to Vanda. Allow
her to go away for ten minutes."

Vanda, a blue-eyed, light blonde, with a large red mouth, with the
typical face of a Lithuanian, looked imploringly at Jennka. If
Jennka had said "No" she would have remained in the room, but
Jennka did not say anything and even shut her eyes deliberately.
Vanda obediently went out of the room.

This general came accurately twice a month, every two weeks (just
as to Zoe, another girl, came daily another honoured guest,
nicknamed the Director in the house).

Jennka suddenly threw the old, tattered book behind her. Her brown
eyes flared up with a real golden fire.

"You're wrong in despising this general," said she. "I've known
worse Ethiopians. I had a certain guest once--a real blockhead. He
couldn't make love to me otherwise than ... otherwise than ...
well, let's say it plainly: he pricked me with pins in the breast
... While in Vilno a Polish Catholic priest used to come to me. He
would dress me all in white, compel me to powder myself, lay me
down on the bed. He'd light three candles near me. And then, when
I seemed to him altogether like a dead woman, he'd throw himself
upon me."

Little White Manka suddenly exclaimed:

"It's the truth you're telling, Jennka! I had a certain old
bugger, too. He made me pretend all the time that I was an
innocent girl, so's I'd cry and scream. But, Jennechka, though
you're the smartest one of us, yet I'll bet you won't guess who he
was ..."

"The warden of a prison?"

"A fire chief."

Suddenly Katie burst into laughter in her bass:

"Well, now, I had a certain teacher. He taught some kind of
arithmetic, I disremember which. He always made me believe, that I
was the man, and he the woman, and that I should do it to him ...
by force ... And what a fool! Just imagine, girls, he'd yell all
the time: 'I'm your woman! I'm all yours! Take me! Take me!'"

"Loony!" said the blue-eyed, spry Verka in a positive and
unexpectedly contralto voice: "Loony."

"No, why?" suddenly retorted the kindly and modest Tamara. "Not
crazy at all, but simply, like all men, a libertine. At home it's
tiresome for him, while here for his money he can receive whatever
pleasure he desires. That's plain, it seems?"

Jennka, who had been silent up to now, suddenly, with one quick
movement sat up in bed.

"You're all fools!" she cried. "Why do you forgive them all this?
Before I used to be foolish myself, too, but now I compel them to
walk before me on all fours, compel them to kiss my soles, and
they do this with delight ... You all know, girlies, that I don't
love money, but I pluck the men in whatever way I can. They, the
nasty beasts, present me with the portraits of their wives,
brides, mothers, daughters ... However, you've seen, I think, the
photographs in our water-closet? But now, just think of it, my
children ... A woman loves only once, but for always, while a man
loves like a he-greyhound... That he's unfaithful is nothing; but
he never has even the commonest feeling of gratitude left either
for the old, or the new, mistress. I've heard it said, that now
there are many clean boys among the young people. I believe this,
though I haven't seen, haven't met them, myself. But all those I
have seen are all vagabonds, nasty brutes and skunks. Not so long
ago I read some novel of our miserable life. It's almost the same
thing as I'm telling you now."

Vanda came back. She slowly, carefully, sat down on the edge of
Jennka's bed; there, where the shadow of the lamp fell. Out of
that deep, though deformed psychical delicacy, which is peculiar
to people sentenced to death, prisoners at hard labour, and
prostitutes, none had the courage to ask her how she had passed
this hour and a half. Suddenly she threw upon the table twenty-
five roubles and said:

"Bring me white wine and a watermelon."

And, burying her face in her arms, which had sunk on the table,
she began to sob inaudibly. And again no one took the liberty of
putting any question to her. Only Jennka grew pale from wrath and
bit her lower lip so that a row of white spots was left upon it.

"Yes," she said; "here, now, I understand Tamara. You hear,
Tamara, I apologize before you. I've often laughed over your being
in love with your thief Senka. But here, now, I'll say that of all
the men the most decent is a thief or a murderer. He doesn't hide
the fact that he loves a girlie, and, if need be, will commit a
crime for her--a theft or a murder. But these--the rest of them!
All lying, falsehood, petty cunning, depravity on the sly. The
nasty beast has three families, a wife and five children. A
governess and two children abroad. The eldest daughter from the
first marriage, and a child by her. And this everybody, everybody
in town knows, save his little children. And even they, perhaps,
guess it and whisper among themselves. And, just imagine, he's a
respected person, honoured by the whole world ... My children, it
seems we've never had occasion to enter into confidences with each
other, and yet I'll tell you, that I when I was ten and a half,
was sold by my own mother in the city of Zhitomir to Doctor
Tarabukin. I kissed his hands, implored him to spare me, I cried
out to him: 'I'm little!' But he'd answer me: 'That's nothing,
that's nothing: you'll grow up.' Well, of course, there was pain,
aversion, nastiness ... And he afterwards spread it around as a
current anecdote. The desperate cry of my soul."

"Well, as long as we do speak, let's speak to the end," suddenly
and calmly said Zoe, and smiled negligently and sadly. "I was
deprived of innocence by a teacher in the ministerial school, Ivan
Petrovich Sus. He simply called me over to his rooms, and his wife
at that time had gone to market for a suckling pig--it was
Christmas. Treated me with candies, and then said it was going to
be one of two things: either I must obey him in everything, or
he'd at once expel me out of school for bad conduct. But then you
know yourselves, girls, how we feared the teachers. Here they
aren't terrible to us, because we do with them whatever we want--
but at that time! For then he seemed to us greater than Czar and
God."

"And me a stewdent. He was teaching the master's boys in our
place. There, where I was a servant ..."

"No, but I ..." exclaimed Niura, but, turning around unexpectedly,
remained as she was with her mouth open. Looking in the direction
of her gaze, Jennka had to wring her hands. In the doorway stood
Liubka, grown thin, with dark rings under her eyes, and, just like
a somnambulist, was searching with her hand for the door-knob, as
a point of support.

"Liubka, you fool, what's the matter with you?' yelled Jennka
loudly. "What is it?"

"Well, of course, what: he took and chased me out."

No one said a word. Jennka hid her eyes with her hands and started
breathing hard, and it could be seen how under the skin of her
cheeks the taut muscles of the jaws were working.

"Jennechka, all my hope is only in you," said Liubka with a deep
expression of weary helplessness. "Everybody respects you so. Talk
it over, dearie, with Anna Markovna or with Simeon ... Let them
take me back."

Jennka straightened up on the bed, fixed Liubka with her dry,
burning, yet seemingly weeping eyes, and asked brokenly:

"Have you eaten anything to-day?"

"No. Neither yesterday, nor to-day. Nothing."

"Listen, Jennechka," asked Vanda quietly, "suppose I give her some
white wine? And Verka meanwhile will run to the kitchen for meat?
What?"

"Do as you know best. Of course, that's all right. And give a
look, girlies, why, she's all wet. Oh, what a booby! Well! Lively!
Undress yourself! Little White Manka, or you, Tamarochka, give her
dry drawers, warm stockings and slippers. Well, now," she turned
to Liubka, "tell us, you idiot, all that happened to you!"





CHAPTER IX.


On that early morning when Lichonin so suddenly, and, perhaps,
unexpectedly even to himself, had carried off Liubka from the gay
establishment of Anna Markovna it was the height of summer. The
trees still remained green, but in the scent of the air, the
leaves, and the grass there was already to be felt, as though from
afar, the tender, melancholy, and at the same time bewitching
scent of the nearing autumn. With wonder the student gazed at the
trees, so clean, innocent and quiet, as though God, imperceptibly
to men, had planted them about here at night; and the trees
themselves were looking around with wonder upon the calm blue
water, that still seemed slumbering in the pools and ditches and
under the wooden bridge thrown across the shallow river; upon the
lofty, as though newly washed sky, which had just awakened, and,
in the glow of dawn, half asleep, was smiling with a rosy, lazy,
happy smile in greeting to the kindling sun.

The heart of the student expanded and quivered; both from the
beauty of the beatific morning, and from the joy of existence, and
from the sweet air, refreshing his lungs after the night, passed
without sleep, in a crowded and smoke-filled compartment. But the
beauty and loftiness of his own action moved him still more.

Yes, he had acted like a man, like a real man, in the highest
sense of that word! Even now he is not repenting of what he had
done. It's all right for them (to whom this "them" applied,
Lichonin did not properly understand even himself), it's all right
for them to talk about the horrors of prostitution; to talk,
sitting at tea, with rolls and sausage, in the presence of pure
and cultured girls. But had any one of his colleagues taken some
actual step toward liberating a woman from perdition? Eh, now? And
then there is also--the sort that will come to this same Sonechka
Marmeladova, will tell her all sorts of taradiddles, describe all
kinds of horrors to her, butt into her soul, until he brings her
to tears; and right off will start in crying himself and begin to
console her, embrace her, pat her on the head, kiss her at first
on the cheek, then on the lips; well, and everybody knows what
happens next! Faugh! But with him, with Lichonin, the word and the
deed were never at odds.

He clasped Liubka around the waist, and looked at her with kindly,
almost loving, eyes; although, the very same minute, he himself
thought that he was regarding her as a father or a brother.

Sleep was fearfully besetting Liubka; her eyes would close, and
she with an effort would open them wide, so as not to fall asleep
again; while on her lips lay the same naive, childish, tired
smile, which Lichonin had noticed still there, in the cabinet. And
out of one corner of her mouth ran a thin trickle of saliva.

"Liubka, my dear! My darling, much-suffering woman! Behold how
fine it is all around! Lord! Here it's five years that I haven't
seen the sunrise. Now play at cards, now drinking, now I had to
hurry to the university. Behold, my dearest, over there the dawn
has burst into bloom. The sun is near! This is your dawn,
Liubochka! This is your new life beginning. You will fearlessly
lean upon my strong arm. I shall lead you out upon the road of
honest toil, on the way to a brave combat with life, face to face
with it!"

Liubka eyed him askance. "There, the fumes are still playing in
his head," she thought kindly. "But that's nothing--he's kind and a
good sort. Only a trifle homely." And, having smiled with a half-
sleepy smile, she said in a tone of capricious reproach:

"Ye--es! You'll fool me, never fear. All of you men are like that.
You just gain yours at first, to get your pleasure, and then--no
attention whatsoever!"

"I? Oh? That I should do this!" Lichonin exclaimed warmly and even
smote himself on the chest with his free hand. "Then you know me
very badly! I'm too honest a man to be deceiving a defenseless
girl. No! I'll exert all my powers and all my soul to educate your
mind, to widen your outlook, to compel your poor heart, which has
suffered so, to forget all the wounds and wrongs which life has
inflicted upon it. I will be a father and a brother to you! I
shall safeguard your every step! And if you will come to love
somebody with a truly pure, holy love, then I shall bless that day
and hour when I had snatched you out of this Dantean hell!"

During the continuation of this flaming tirade the old cabby with
great significance, although silently, began laughing, and from
this inaudible laughter his back shook. Old cabbies hear very many
things, because to the cabby, sitting in front, everything is
readily audible, which is not at all suspected by the conversing
fares; and many things do the old cabbies know of that which takes
place among people. Who knows, perhaps he had heard more than once
even more disordered, more lofty speeches?

It seemed to Liubka for some reason that Lichonin had grown angry
at her, or that he was growing jealous beforehand of some
imaginary rival. He was declaiming with entirely too much noise
and agitation. She became perfectly awake, turned her face to
Lichonin with wide open, uncomprehending, and at the same time
submissive eyes, and slightly touched his right hand, lying on her
waist, with her fingers.

"Don't get angry, my sweetie. I'll never exchange you for another.
Here's my word of honour, honest to God! My word of honour, that I
never will! Don't you think I feel you're wanting to take care of
me? Do you think I don't understand? Why, you're such an
attractive, nice little young fellow. There, now, if you were an
old man and homely..."

"Ah! You haven't got the right idea!" shouted Lichonin, and again
in high-flown style began to tell her about the equal rights of
women, about the sacredness of toil, about human justice, about
freedom, about the struggle against reigning evil.

Of all his words Liubka understood exactly not a one. She still
felt herself guilty of something and somehow shrank all up, grew
sad, bowed her head and became quiet. A little more and she, in
all probability, would have burst out crying in the middle of the
street; but fortunately, they by this time had driven up to the
house where Lichonin was staying.

"Well, here we are at home," said the student. "Stop, driver!"

And when he had paid him, he could not refrain from declaiming
with pathos, his hand extended theatrically straight before him:

    "And into my house, calm and fearless,
     As its full mistress walk thou in!"

And again the unfathomable, prophetic smile wrinkled the aged
brown face of the cabby.





CHAPTER X.


The room in which Lichonin lived was situated on the fifth story
and a half. And a half, because there are such five, six, and
seven-story profitable houses, packed to overflowing and cheap, on
top of which are erected still other sorry bug-breeders of roof
iron, something in the nature of mansards; or more exactly, bird-
houses, in which it is fearfully cold in winter, while in the
summer time it is just as torrid as in the tropics. Liubka with
difficulty clambered upward. It seemed to her that now, now, two
steps more, and she would drop straight down on the steps and fall
into a sleep from which nothing would be able to wake her. But
Lichonin was saying all the time:

"My dear! I can see you are tired. But that's nothing. Lean upon
me. We are going upwards all the time! Always higher and higher!
Is this not a symbol of all human aspirations? My comrade, my
sister, lean upon my arm!"

Here it became still worse for poor Liubka. As it was, she could
barely go up alone, but here she also had to drag in tow Lichonin,
who had grown extremely heavy. And his weight would not really
have mattered; his wordiness, however, was beginning to irritate
her little by little. So irritates at times the ceaseless,
wearisome crying, like a toothache, of an infant at breast; the
piercing whimpering of a canary; or someone whistling without
pause and out of tune in an adjoining room.

Finally, they reached Lichonin's room. There was no key in the
door. And, as a rule, it was never even locked with a key.
Lichonin pushed the door and they entered. It was dark in the
room, because the window curtains were lowered. It smelt of mice,
kerosene, yesterday's vegetable soup, long-.used bed linen, stale
tobacco smoke. In the half-dusk some one who could not be seen was
snoring deafeningly and with variations.

Lichonin raised the shade. There were the usual furnishings of a
poor student: a sagging, unmade bed with a crumpled blanket; a
lame table, and on it a candlestick without a candle; several
books on the floor and on the table; cigarette stubs everywhere;
and opposite the bed, along the other wall, an old, old divan,
upon which at the present moment was sleeping and snoring, with
mouth wide open, some young man with black hair and moustache. The
collar of his shirt was unbuttoned and through its opening could
be seen the chest and black hair, the like of which for thickness
and curliness could be found only on Persian lambs.

"Nijeradze! Hey, Nijeradze, get up!" cried Lichonin and prodded
the sleeper in the ribs. "Prince!"

"M-m-m..."

"May your race be even accursed in the person of your ancestors
and descendants! May they even be exiled from the heights of the
beauteous Caucasus! May they even never behold the blessed
Georgia! Get up, you skunk! Get up you Aravian dromedary!
Kintoshka! ..."

But suddenly, unexpectedly for Lichonin, Liubka intervened. She
took him by the arm and said timidly:

"Darling, why torture him? Maybe he wants to sleep, maybe he's
tired? Let him sleep a bit. I'd better go home. Will you give me a
half for a cabby? To-morrow you'll come to me again. Isn't that
so, sweetie?"

Lichonin was abashed. So strange did the intervention of this
silent, apparently sleepy girl, appear to him. Of course, he did
not grasp that she was actuated by an instinctive, unconscious
pity for a man who had not had enough sleep; or, perhaps, a
professional regard for the sleep of other people. But the
astonishment was only momentary. For some reason he became
offended. He raised the hand of the recumbent man, which hung down
to the floor, with the extinguished cigarette still remaining
between its fingers, and, shaking it hard, he said in a serious,
almost severe voice:

"Listen, now, Nijeradze, I'm asking you seriously. Understand,
now, may the devil take you that I'm not alone, but with a woman.
Swine!"

It was as though a miracle had happened: the lying man suddenly
jumped up, as though some spring of unusual force had
instantaneously unwound under him. He sat down on the divan,
rapidly rubbed with his palms his eyes, forehead, temples; saw the
woman, became confused at once, and muttered, hastily buttoning
his blouse:

"Is that you, Lichonin? And here I was waiting and waiting for you
and fell asleep. Request the unknown comrade to turn away for just
a minute."

He hastily pulled on his gray, everyday student's coat, and
rumpled up with all the fingers of both his hands his luxuriant
black curls. Liubka, with the coquetry natural to all women, no
matter in what years or situation they find themselves, walked up
to the sliver of a mirror hanging on the wall, to fix her hair-
dress. Nijeradze askance, questioningly, only with the movement of
his eyes, indicated her to Lichonin.

"Never mind. Don't pay any attention," answered the other aloud.
"But let's get out of here, however. I'll tell you everything
right away. Excuse me, Liubochka, it's only for a minute. I'll
come back at once, fix you up, and then evaporate, like smoke."

"But don't trouble yourself," replied Liubka: "it'll be all right
for me here, right on this divan. And you fix yourself up on the
bed."

"No, that's no longer like a model, my angel! I have a colleague
here. And so I'll go to him to sleep. I'll return in just a
minute."

Both students went out into the corridor.

"What meaneth this dream?" asked Nijeradze, opening wide his
oriental, somewhat sheepish eyes. "Whence this beauteous child,
this comrade in a petticoat?"

Lichonin shook his head with great significance and made a wry
face. Now, when the ride, the fresh air, the morning, and the
business-like, everyday, accustomed setting had entirely sobered
him, he was beginning to experience within his soul an indistinct
feeling of a certain awkwardness, needlessness of this sudden
action; and at the same time something in the nature of an
unconscious irritation both against himself and the woman he had
carried off. He already had a presentiment of the onerousness of
living together, of a multiplicity of cares, unpleasantnesses and
expenses; of the equivocal smiles or even simply the unceremonious
questionings of comrades; finally, of the serious hindrance during
the time of government examinations. But, having scarcely begun
speaking with Nijeradze, he at once became ashamed of his
pusillanimity, and having started off listlessly, towards the end
he again began to prance on his heroic steed.

"Do you see, prince," he said, in his confusion twisting a button
of his comrade's coat and without looking in his eyes, "you've
made a mistake. This isn't a comrade in a petticoat, but ...
simply, I was just now with my colleagues ... that is, I wasn't,
but just dropped in for a minute with my friends into the Yamkas,
to Anna Markovna ..."

"With whom?" asked Nijeradze, becoming animated.

"Well, isn't it all the same to you, prince? There was Tolpygin,
Ramses, a certain sub-professor--Yarchenko--Borya Sobashnikov, and
others ... I don't recall. We had been boat-riding the whole
evening, then dived into a publican's, and only after that, like
swine, started for the Yamkas. I, you know, am a very abstemious
man. I only sat and soaked up cognac, like a sponge, with a
certain reporter I know. Well, all the others fell from grace
however. And so, toward morning, for some reason or other, I went
all to pieces. I got so sad and full of pity from looking at these
unhappy women. I also thought, now, of how our sisters enjoy our
regard, love, protection; how our mothers are surrounded with
reverent adoration. Just let some one say one rude word to them,
shove them, offend them; we are ready to chew his throat off!
Isn't that the truth?"

"M-m? ..." drawled out the Georgian, half questioningly, half
expectantly, and squinted his eyes to one side.

"Well, then I thought: why, now, any blackguard, any
whippersnapper, any shattered ancient can take any one of these
women to himself for a minute or for a night, as a momentary whim;
and indifferently, one superfluous time more--the thousand and
first--profane and defile in her that which is the most precious
in a human being--love... Do you understand--revile, trample it
underfoot, pay for the visit and walk away in peace, his hands in
his pockets, whistling. But the most horrible of all is that all
this has come to be a habit with them; it's all one to her, and
it's all one to him. The feelings have dulled, the soul has
dimmed. That's so, isn't it? And yet, in every one of them
perishes both a splendid sister and a sainted mother. Eh? Isn't
that the truth?"

"N-na? ...." mumbled Nijeradze and again shifted his eyes to one
side.

"And so I thought: wherefore words and superfluous exclamations!
To the devil with hypocritical speeches during conventions. To the
devil with abolition, regulation (suddenly, involuntarily, the
recent words of the reporter came to his mind), Magdalene asylums
and all these distributions of holy books in the establishments!
Here, I'll up and act as a really honest man, snatch a girl out of
this slough, implant her in real firm soil, calm her, encourage
her, treat her kindly."

"H-hm!" grunted Nijeradze with a grin.

"Eh, prince! You always have salacious things on your mind. For
you understand that I'm not talking about a woman, but about a
human being; not about flesh, but about a soul."

"All right, all right, me soul, go on!"

"Futhermore, as I thought, so did I act. I took her to-day from
Anna Markovna's and brought her for the present to me. And later--
whatever God may grant. I'll teach her in the beginning to read,
and write; then open up for her a little cook-shop, or a grocery
store, let's say. I think that the comrades won't refuse to help
me. The human heart, prince, my brother--every heart--is in need
of cordiality, of warmth. And lo and behold! in a year, in two, I
will return to society a good, industrious, worthy member, with a
virgin soul, open to all sorts of great possibilities... For she
has given only her body, while her soul is pure and innocent."

"Tse, tse, tse," the prince smacked his tongue.

"What does this mean, you Tifflissian he-mule?"

"And will you buy her a sewing machine?"

"Why a sewing machine, in particular? I don't understand."

"It's always that way in the novels, me soul. Just as soon as the
hero has saved the poor, but lost, creature, he at once sets up a
sewing machine for her."

"Stop talking nonsense," Lichonin waved him away angrily with his
hand. "Clown!"

The Georgian suddenly grew heated, his black eyes began to
sparkle, and immediately Caucasian intonations could be heard in
his voice.

"No, not nonsense, me soul. It's one of two things here, and it'll
all end in one and the same result. Either you'll get together
with her and after five months chuck her out on the street; and
she'll return to the brothel or take to walking the street. That's
a fact! Or else you won't get together with her, but will begin to
load her up with manual or mental labours and will try to develop
her ignorant, dark mind; and she from tedium will run away from
you, and will again find herself either walking the street, or in
a brothel. That's a fact, too! However, there is still a third
combination. You'll be vexing yourself about her like a brother,
like the knight Lancelot, but she, secretly from you, will fall in
love with another. Me soul, believe me, that wooman, when she is a
wooman, is always--a wooman. And the other will play a bit with
her body, and after three months chuck her out into the street or
into a brothel."

Lichonin sighed deeply. Somewhere deep--not in his mind, but in
the hidden, almost unseizable secret recesses of his
consciousness--something resembling the thought that Nijeradze was
right flashed through him. But he quickly gained control of
himself, shook his head, and, stretching out his hand to the
prince, uttered triumphantly:

"I promise you, that after half a year you'll take your words
back, and as a mark of apology, you Erivanian billy goat, you
Armavirian egg-plant, you'll stand me to a dozen of Cakhetine
wine."

"Va! That's a go!" the prince struck Lichonin's hand with his palm
with all his might. "With pleasure. But if it comes out as I say--
then you do it."

"Then I do it. However, AU REVOIR, prince. Whom are you lodging
with?"

"Right here, in this corridor, at Soloviev's. But you, of course,
like a mediaeval knight, will lay a two-edged sword between
yourself and the beauteous Rosamond? Yes?"

"Nonsense! I did want to pass the night at Soloviev's myself. But
now I'll go and wander about the streets a bit and turn in into
somebody's; to Zaitzevich or Strump. Farewell, prince!"

"Wait, wait!" Nijeradze called him, when he had gone a few steps.
"I have forgotten to tell you the main thing: Partzan has tripped
up!"

"So that's how?" wondered Lichonin, and at once yawned long,
deeply and with enjoyment.

"Yes. But there's nothing dreadful; only the possession of some
illegal brochures and stuff. He won't have to sit for more than a
year."

"That's nothing; he's a husky lad, he can stand it."

"He's husky, all right" confirmed the prince.

"Farewell!"

"AU REVOIR, knight Grunwaldus!"

"AU REVOIR, you Carbidinian stallion."





CHAPTER XI.


Lichonin was left alone. In the half-dark corridor it smelt of
kerosene fumes from the guttering little tin lamp, and of the
odour of stagnant bad tobacco. The daylight dully penetrated only
near the top, from two small glass frames, let in the roof at both
ends of the corridor.

Lichonin found himself in that simultaneously weakened and
elevated mood which is so familiar to every man who has happened
to be thoroughly sleepless for a long time. It was as though he
had gone out of the limitations of everyday human life, and this
life had become to him distant and of indifference; but at the
same time his thoughts and emotions obtained a certain peaceful
clarity and apathetic distinctness, and there was a tedious and
languishing allurement in this crystal Nirvanah.

He stood near his room, leaning against the wall, and seemed to
see, feel, and hear how near him and below him were sleeping
several score of people; sleeping with the last, fast morning
sleep, with open mouths, with measured deep breathing, with a
wilted pallor on their faces, glistening from sleep; and through
his head flashed the thought, remote yet familiar since childhood,
of how horrible sleeping people are--far more horrible than dead
people. Then he remembered about Liubka. His subterranean,
submerged, mysterious "I" rapidly, rapidly whispered that he ought
to drop into the room, and see if the girl were all right, as well
as make certain dispositions about tea in the morning; but he made
believe to himself that he was not at all even thinking of this,
and walked out into the street.

He walked, looking closely at everything that met his eyes, with
an idle and exact curiosity new to him; and every feature was
drawn for him in relief to such a degree that it seemed to him as
though he were feeling it with his fingers... There a peasant
woman passed by. Over her shoulder is a yoke staff, while at each
end of the yoke is a large pail of milk; her face is not young,
with a net of fine wrinkles on the temples and with two deep
furrows from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth; but her
cheeks are rosy, and, probably, hard to the touch, while her hazel
eyes radiate a sprightly peasant smile. From the movement of the
heavy yoke and from the smooth walk her hips sway rhythmically now
to the left, now to the right, and in their wave-like movements
there is a coarse, sensual beauty.

"A mischievous dame, and she's lived through a checkered life,"
reflected Lichonin. And suddenly, unexpectedly to himself, he had
a feeling for, and irresistibly desired, this woman, altogether
unknown to him, homely and not young; in all probability dirty and
vulgar, but still resembling, as it seemed to him, a large
Antonovka [Footnote: Somewhat like a Spitzbergen, but a trifle
rounder.--Trans.] apple which had fallen to the ground-somewhat
bored by a worm, and which had lain just a wee bit too long, but
which has still preserved its bright colour and its fragrant,
winey aroma.

Getting ahead of her, an empty, black, funereal catafalque whirled
by; with two horses in harness, and two tied behind to the little
rear columns. The torch-bearers and grave-diggers, already drunk
since morning, with red, brutish faces, with rusty opera hats on
their heads, were sitting in a disorderly heap on their uniform
liveries, on the reticular horse-blankets, on the mourning
lanterns; and with rusty, hoarse voices were roaring out some
incoherent song. "They must be hurrying to a funeral procession;
or, perhaps, have even finished it already," reflected Lichonin;
"merry fellows!" On the boulevard he came to a stop and sat down
on a small wooden bench, painted green. Two rows of mighty
centenarian chestnuts went away into the distance, merging
together somewhere afar into one straight green arrow. The prickly
large nuts were already hanging on the trees. Lichonin suddenly
recalled that at the very beginning of the spring he had been
sitting on this very boulevard, and at this very same spot. Then
it had been a calm, gentle evening of smoky purple, soundlessly
falling into slumber, just like a smiling, tired maiden. Then the
stalwart chestnuts, with their foliage--broad at the bottom and
narrow toward the top--had been strewn all over with clusters of
blossoms, growing with bright, rosy, thin cones straight to the
sky; just as though some one by mistake had taken and fastened
upon all the chestnuts, as upon lustres, pink Christmas-tree
candles. And suddenly, with extraordinary poignancy--every man
sooner or later passes through this zone of inner emotion--
Lichonin felt, that here are the nuts ripening already, while then
there had been little pink blossoming candles, and that there
would be many more springs and many blossoms, but the one which
had passed no one and nothing had the power to bring back. Sadly
gazing into the depths of the retreating dense alley, he suddenly
noticed that sentimental tears were making his eyes smart.

He got up and went on farther, looking closely at everything that
he met with an incessant, sharpened, and at the same time calm
attention, just as though he were looking at the God-created world
for the first time. A gang of stone masons went past him on the
pavement, and all of them were reflected in his inner vision with
an exaggerated vividness and brilliance of colour, just as though
on the frosted glass of a camera obscura. The foreman, with a red
beard, matted to one side, and with blue austere eyes; and a
tremendous young fellow, whose left eye was swollen, and who had a
spot of a dark-blue colour spreading from the forehead to the
cheekbone and from the nose to the temple; and a young boy with a
naive, country face, with a gaping mouth like a fledgling's, weak,
moist; and an old man who, having come late, was running after the
gang at a funny, goat-like trot; and their clothes, soiled with
lime, their aprons and their chisels--all this flickered before
him in an inanimate file--a colourful, motley, but dead
cinematographic film.

He had to cut across the New Kishenevsky Market. Suddenly the
savoury, greasy odour of something roasted compelled him to
distend his nostrils. Lichonin recalled that he had not eaten
anything since noon yesterday, and at once felt hunger. He turned
to the right, into the centre of the market.

In the days of his starvings--and he had had to experience them
more than once--he would come here to the market, and for the
pitiful coppers, gotten with difficulty, would buy himself bread
and fried sausage. This was in winter, oftenest of all. The
huckstress, wrapped up in a multiplicity of clothes, usually sat
upon a pot of coals for warmth; while before her, on the iron
dripping-pan, hissed and crackled the thick, home-made sausage,
cut into pieces a quarter of a yard in length, plentifully
seasoned with garlic. A piece of sausage usually cost ten kopecks,
the bread two kopecks.

There were very many folk at market to-day. Even at a distance,
edging his way to the familiar, loved stall, Lichonin heard the
sounds of music. Having made his way through the crowd, which in a
solid ring surrounded one of the stalls, he saw a naive and
endearing sight, which may be seen only in the blessed south of
Russia. Ten or fifteen huckstresses, during ordinary times gossips
of evil tongue and addicted to unrestrainable swearing,
inexhaustible in its verbal diversity, but now, evidently,
flattering and tender cronies, had started celebrating even since
last evening; had caroused the whole night through and now had
carried their noisy merrymaking out to the market. The hired
musicians--two fiddles, a first and a second, and a tambourine--
were strumming a monotonous but a lively, bold, daring and cunning
tune. Some of the wives were clinking glasses and kissing each
other, pouring vodka over one another; others poured it out into
glasses and over the tables; others still, clapping their palms in
time with the music, oh'd, squealed, and danced, squatting in one
place. And in the middle of the ring, upon the cobbles of the
pavement, a stout woman of about forty-five, but still handsome,
with red, fleshy lips, with humid, intoxicated, seemingly unctuous
eyes, merrily sparkling from under the high bows of black,
regular, Little Russian eyebrows, was whirling around and stamping
out a tattoo on one spot. All the beauty and all the art of her
dance consisted in that she would now bow her little head and look
out provokingly from under her eyebrows, then suddenly toss it
back and let her eyelashes down and spread her hands out at her
sides; and also in that in measure with the dance her enormous
breasts swayed and quivered under her red calico waist. During the
dance she was singing, now shuffling her heels, now the toes, of
her goat-skin shoes:

    "The fiddle's playing on the street,
    You can hear its bass so sweet;
    My mother has me locked up neat,
    My waitin' dearie I can't meet."

That was the very country-wife whom Lichonin knew; the self-same
who not only had had him for a client during hard times, but had
even extended him credit. She suddenly recognized Lichonin, darted
to him, embraced him, squeezed him to her bosom and kissed him
straight on his lips with her moist, warm, thick lips. Then she
spread her arms out wide, smote one palm against the other,
intertwined her fingers, and sweetly, as only Podolian wives can
do it, began to coo:

"My little master, my little silver gold trove, my lovie! You
forgive a drunken wife like me, now. Well, what of it? I've gone
op a spree!" She then darted at him in an attempt to kiss his
hand. "But then, I know you ain't proud, like other gentry. Well,
give me your hand, dearie-dear; why, I want to kiss your little
hand! No, no, no! I athk, I athk you! ..." "Well, now, that's
nonsense, Aunt Glycera!" Linchonin interrupted her, unexpectedly
becoming animated. "Let's best kiss just so, now. Your lips are
just too sweet!"

"Ah, my little sweetheart! My little bright sun, my little apple
of paradise, you," Glycera waxed tender, "give me your lips, then!
Give me your little lips to buss, then! ..."

She pressed him warmly to her gigantean bosom and again slavered
over him with her moist, warm, Hottentot lips. After that, she
seized him by his sleeve, brought him out into the middle of the
ring, and began to walk around him with a stately, mincing step,
having bent her waist coquettishly and vociferating:

    "Oh, each to his taste, I want Paraska more,
    For I've a divel in my pants
    Her skirt holds somethin' for!"

And then suddenly she passed on, sustained by the musicians, to a
most rollicking, Little Russian, thumping GOPAK dance:

    "Oh, Chook, that is too much,
    You have soiled your apron too much.
    Well, Prisko, don't you fret,
    Wipe it off, then, if you're wet!
    TRALALA, TRALALA ...

    Sleeps, Khima, and won't stir
    That a Kossack sleeps with her,
    You feel all, Khima--why deceive?
    Just to yourself you make believe.
    TAI, TAI, TRALALAI..."'

Lichonin, completely grown merry, suddenly began jumping like a
goat about her, just like a satellite around a whirling planet--
long-legged, long-armed, stooping and altogether incongruous. His
entrance was greeted by a general but pretty friendly neighing. He
was made to sit down at the table, was helped to vodka and
sausage. He, for his part, sent a tramp he knew after beer, and,
glass in hand, delivered three absurd speeches: one about the
self-determination of Ukraine; another about the goodness of
Little Russian sausage, in connection with the beauty and
domesticity of the women of Little Russia; and the third, for some
reason, about trade and industry in the south of Russia. Sitting
alongside of Lukeriya, he was all the time trying to embrace her
around the waist, and she did not oppose this. But even his long
arms could not encompass her amazing waist. However, she clasped
his hand powerfully under the table, until it hurt, with her
enormous, soft hand, as hot as fire.

At this moment among the huckstresses, who up to now had been
tenderly kissing, certain old, unsettled quarrels and grievances
flickered up. Two of the wives, bending toward each other just
like roosters ready to enter battle, their arms akimbo, were
pouring upon each other the most choice, out-of-the-way oaths:

"Fool, stiff, daughter of a dog!" one was yelling. "Youse ain't
fit to kiss me right here." And, turning her back around to her
foe, she loudly slapped herself below the spine. "Right here!
Here!"

While the other, infuriated, squealed in answer:

"You lie, you slut, for I am fit, I am fit!"

Lichonin utilized the minute. As though he had just recalled
something, he hurriedly jumped up from the bench and called out:

"Wait for me, Aunty Luckeriya, I'll come in three minutes!" and
dived through the living ring of spectators.

"Master! Master!" his neighbour cried after him: "Come back the
quickest you can, now! I've one little word to say to you."

Having turned the corner, he for some time racked his head trying
to recall what it was that he absolutely had to do, now, this very
minute. And again, in the very depths of his soul, he knew just
what he had to do, but he procrastinated confessing this to his
own self. It was already a clear, bright day, about nine or ten
o'clock. Janitors were watering the streets with rubber hose.
Flower girls were sitting on the squares and near the gates of the
boulevards, with roses, stock-gillyflowers and narcissi. The
radiant, gay, rich southern town was beginning to get animated.
Over the pavement jolted an iron cage filled with dogs of every
possible colour, breed, and age. On the coach box were sitting two
dog-catchers, or, as they deferentially style themselves, "the
king's dog-catchers"--i. e., hunters of stray dogs--returning home
with this morning's catch.

"She must be awake by now," Lichonin's secret thought finally took
form; "but if she isn't yet awake, then I'll quietly lie down on
the divan and sleep a little."

In the corridor the dying kerosene lamp emitted a dim light and
smoked as before, and the watery, murky half-light penetrated into
the narrow, long box. The door of the room had remained unlocked,
after all. Lichonin opened it without a sound and entered.

The faint, blue half-light poured in through the interstices
between the blinds and the windows. Lichonin stopped in the middle
of the room and with an intensified avidity heard the quiet,
sleeping breathing of Liubka. His lips became so hot and dry that
he had to lick them incessantly. His knees began to tremble.

"Ask if she needs anything," suddenly darted through his head.

Like a drunkard, breathing hard, with mouth open, staggering on
his shaking legs, he walked up to the bed.

Liubka was sleeping on her back, with one bare arm stretched out
along the body, and the other on her breast. Lichonin bent nearer,
to her very face. She was breathing evenly and deeply. This
breathing of her young, healthy body was, despite sleep, pure and
almost aromatic. He cautiously ran his fingers over her bare arm
and stroked her breast a little below the clavicle. "What am I
doing?" his reason suddenly cried out within him in terror; but
some one else answered for Lichonin: "But I'm not doing anything.
I only want to ask if she's sleeping comfortably, and whether she
doesn't want some tea."

But Liubka suddenly awoke, opened her eyes, blinked them for a
moment and opened them again. She gave a long, long stretch, and
with a kindly, not yet fully reasoning smile, encircled Lichonin's
neck with her warm, strong arm.

"Sweetie! Darling!" caressingly uttered the woman in a crooning
voice, somewhat hoarse from sleep. "Why, I was waiting for you and
waiting, and even became angry. And after that I fell asleep and
all night long saw you in my sleep. Come to me, my baby, my lil'
precious!" She drew him to her, breast against breast.

Lichonin almost did not resist; he was all atremble, as from a
chill, and meaninglessly repeating in a galloping whisper with
chattering teeth:

"No, now, Liuba, don't ... Really, don't do that, Liuba ... Ah,
let's drop this, Liuba ... Don't torture me. I won't vouch for
myself ... Let me alone, now, Liuba, for God's sake! ..."

"My-y little silly!" she exclaimed in a laughing, joyous voice.
"Come to me, my joy!"--and, overcoming the last, altogether
insignificant opposition, she pressed his mouth to hers and kissed
him hard and warmly--kissed him sincerely, perhaps for the first
and last time in her life.

"Oh, you scoundrel! What am I doing?" declaimed some honest,
prudent, and false body in Lichonin.

"Well, now? Are you eased up a bit?" asked Liubka kindly, kissing
Lichonin's lips for the last time. "Oh, you, my little student! ..."





CHAPTER XII.


With pain at soul, with malice and repulsion toward himself and
Liubka, and, it would seem, toward all the world, Lichonin without
undressing flung himself upon the wooden, lopsided, sagging divan
and even gnashed his teeth from the smarting shame. Sleep would
not come to him, while his thoughts revolved around this fool
action--as he himself called the carrying off of Liubka,--in which
an atrocious vaudeville had been so disgustingly intertwined with
a deep drama. "It's all one," he stubbornly repeated to himself.
"Once I have given my promise, I'll see the business through to
the end. And, of course, that which has occurred just now will
never, never be repeated! My God, who hasn't fallen, giving in to
a momentary laxity of the nerves? Some philosopher or other has
expressed a deep, remarkable truth, when he affirmed that the
value of the human soul may be known by the depth of its fall and
the height of its flight. But still, the devil take the whole of
this idiotical day and that equivocal reasoner--the reporter
Platonov, and his own--Lichonin's--absurd outburst of chivalry!
Just as though, in reality, this had not taken place in real life,
but in Chernishevski's novel, What's to be done? And how, devil
take it, with what eyes will I look upon her tomorrow?"

His head was on fire; his eyelids were smarting, his lips dry. He
was nervously smoking a cigarette and frequently got up from the
divan to take the decanter of water off the table, and avidly,
straight from its mouth, drink several big draughts. Then, by some
accidental effort of the will, he succeeded in tearing his
thoughts away from the past night, and at once a heavy sleep,
without any visions and images, enveloped him as though in black
cotton.

He awoke long past noon, at two or three o'clock; at first could
not come to himself for a long while; smacked his lips and looked
around the room with glazed, heavy eyes. All that had happened
during the night seemed to have flown out of his memory. But when
he saw Liubka, who was quietly and motionlessly sitting on the
bed, with head lowered and hands crossed on her knees, he began to
groan and grunt from vexation and confusion. Now he recalled
everything. And at that minute he experienced in his own person
how heavy it is to see in the morning, with one's own eyes, the
results of folly committed the night before.

"Are you awake, sweetie?" asked Liubka kindly.

She got up from the bed, walked up to the divan, sat down at
Lichonin's feet, and cautiously patted his blanket-covered leg.

"Why, I woke up long ago and was sitting all the while; I was
afraid to wake you up. You were sleeping so very soundly!"

She stretched toward him and kissed him on the cheek. Lichonin
made a wry face and gently pushed her away from him.

"Wait, Liubochka! Wait; that's not necessary. Do you understand--
absolutely, never necessary. That which took place yesterday--well,
that's an accident. My weakness, let's say. Even more, a momentary
baseness, perhaps. But, by God, believe me, I didn't at all want
to make a mistress out of you. I want to see you my friend, my
sister, my comrade ... Well, that's nothing, then; everything will
adjust itself, grow customary. Only one mustn't fall in spirit.
And in the meanwhile, my dear, go to the window and look out of it
a bit; I just want to put myself in order."

Liubka slightly pouted her lips and walked off to the window,
turning her back on Lichonin. All these words about friendship,
brotherhood and comradeship she could not understand with her
brain of a hen and her simple peasant soul. That a student--after
all, not just anybody, but an educated man, who could learn to be
a doctor, or a lawyer, or a judge--had taken her for maintenance
flattered her imagination far more ... And here, now, it turned
out that he had just fulfilled his caprice, had gotten what he
wanted, and was now trying to back out. They are all like that,
the men!

Lichonin hastily got up, splashed a few handfuls of water in his
face, and dried himself with an old napkin. Then he raised the
blinds and threw open both window shutters. The golden sunlight,
the azure sky, the rumble of the city, the foliage of the thick
linden trees and the chestnuts, the bells of the horse trams, the
dry smell of the hot, dusty street--all this at once burst into the
tiny garret room. Lichonin walked up to Liubka and amicably patted
her on the shoulder.

"Never mind, my joy ... What's done can't be undone, but it's a
lesson for the future. You haven't yet asked tea for yourself,
Liubochka?"

"No, I was waiting for you all the while. Besides, I didn't know
who to ask. And you're all right, too. Why, I heard you, after you
went off with your friend, come back and stand a while near the
door. But you never even said good-bye to me. Is that right?"

"The first family quarrel," thought Lichonin, but thought it
without malice, in jest.

The wash-up, the beauty of the gold and blue southern sky, and the
naive, partly submissive, partly displeased face of Liubka, as
well as the consciousness that after all he was a man, and that he
and not she had to answer for the porridge he had cooked--all this
together braced up his nerves and compelled him to take himself in
hand. He opened the door and roared into the darkness of the
stinking corridor:

"Al-lexa-andra! A samova-ar! Two lo-oaves, bu-utter, and sausage!
And a small bottle of vo-odka!"

The patter of slippers was heard in the corridor, and an aged
voice, even from afar, began to speak thickly:

"What are you bawling for? What are you bawling for, eh? Ho, ho,
ho! Like a stallion in a stall. You ain't little, to look at you;
you're grown up already, yet you carry on like a street boy! Well,
what do you want?"

Into the room walked a little old woman, with red-lidded eyes,
like little narrow cracks, and with a face amazingly like
parchment, upon which a long, sharp nose stuck downward, morosely
and ominously. This was Alexandra, the servant of old of the
student bird-houses; the friend and creditor of all the students;
a woman of sixty-five, argumentative, and a grumbler.

Lichonin repeated his order to her and gave her a rouble note. But
the old woman would not go away; shuffled in one place, snorted,
chewed with her lips and looked inimically at the girl sitting--
with her back to the light.

"What's the matter with you now, Alexandra, that you seem
ossified?" asked Lichonin, laughing. "Or are you lost in
admiration? Well, then, know: this is my cousin, my first cousin,
that is--Liubov..."[Footnote: Love.--Trans.] he was confused for
only a second, but immediately fired away: "Liubov Vasilievna, but
for me--simply Liubochka. I've known her when she was only that
high," he showed a quarter of a yard off the table. "And I pulled
her ears and slapped her for her caprices over the place where the
legs grow from. And then ... I caught all sorts of bugs for her
... But, however ... However, you go on, go on, you Egyptian
mummy, you fragment of former ages! Let one leg be here and the
other there!"

But the old woman lingered. Stamping all around herself, she
barely, barely turned to the door and kept a keen, spiteful,
sidelong glance on Liubka. And at the same time she muttered with
her sunken mouth:

"First cousin! We know these first cousins! There's lots of them
walking around Kashtanovaya Street. There, these he-dogs can never
get enough!"

"Well, you old barque! Lively and don't growl!" Lichonin shouted
after her. "Or else, like your friend, the student Triassov, I'll
take and lock you up in the dressing room for twenty-four hours!"

Alexandra went away, and for a long time her aged, flapping steps
and indistinct muttering could be heard in the corridor. She was
inclined, in her austere, grumbling kindliness, to forgive a great
deal to the studying youths, whom she had served for nigh unto
forty years. She forgave drunkenness, card playing, scandals, loud
singing, debts; but, alas! she was a virgin, and there was only
one thing her continent soul could not abide--libertinage.





CHAPTER XIII.


"And that's splendid ... And fine and charming," Lichonin was
saying, bustling about the lame table and without need shifting
the tea things from one place to another. "For a long time, like
an old crocodile, I haven't drunk tea as it should be drunk, in a
Christian manner, in a domestic setting. Sit down, Liuba, sit
down, my dear, right here on the divan, and keep house. Vodka, in
all probability, you don't drink of a morning, but I, with your
permission, will drink some ... This braces up the nerves right
off. Make mine a little stronger, please, with a piece of lemon.
Ah, what can taste better than a glass of hot tea, poured out by
charming feminine hands?"

Liubka listened to his chatter, a trifle too noisy to seem fully
natural; and her smile, in the beginning mistrusting, wary, was
softening and brightening. But she did not get on with the tea
especially well. At home, in the backwoods village, where this
beverage was still held a rarity, the dainty luxury of well-to-do
families, to be brewed only for honored guests and on great
holidays--there over the pouring of the tea officiated the eldest
man of the family. Later, when Liubka served with "all found" in
the little provincial capital city, in the beginning at a
priest's, and later with an insurance agent (who had been the
first to put her on the road of prostitution)--she was usually
left some strained, tepid tea, which had already been drunk off,
with a bit of gnawn sugar, by the mistress herself--the thin,
jaundiced, malicious wife of the priest; or the wife of the agent,
a fat, old, wrinkled, malignant, greasy, jealous and stingy common
woman. Therefore, the simple business of preparing the tea was now
as difficult for her as it is difficult for all of us in childhood
to distinguish the left hand from the right, or to tie a rope in a
small noose. The bustling Lichonin only hindered her and threw her
into confusion.

"My dear, the art of brewing tea is a great art. It ought to be
studied at Moscow. At first a dry teapot is slightly warmed up.
Then the tea is put into it and is quickly scalded with boiling
water. The first liquid must at once be poured off into the slop-
bowl--the tea thus becomes purer and more aromatic; and by the
way, it's also known that Chinamen are pagans and prepare their
herb very filthily. After that the tea-pot must be filled anew, up
to a quarter of its volume; left on the tray, covered over with a
towel and kept so for three and a half minutes. Afterwards pour in
more boiling water almost up to the top, cover it again, let it
stay just a bit, and you have ready, my dear, a divine beverage;
fragrant, refreshing, and strengthening."

The homely, but pleasant-looking face of Liubka, all spotted from
freckles, like a cuckoo's egg, lengthened and paled a little.

"Well, for God's sake, don't you be angry at me ... You're called
Vassil Vassilich, isn't that so? Don't get angry, darling Vassil
Vassilich. Really, now, I'll learn fast, I'm quick. And why do you
say you and you [Footnote: In contradistinction to "thou," as used
to familiars and inferiors in Russia.--Trans] to me all the time?
It seems that we aren't strangers now?"

She looked at him kindly. And truly, she had this morning, for the
first time in all her brief but distorted life, given her body to
a man--even though without enjoyment but more out of gratitude and
pity, yet voluntarily--not for money, not under compulsion, not
under threat of dismissal and scandal. And her feminine heart,
always unwithering, always drawn to love, like a sunflower to the
sun, was at this moment pure and inclined to tenderness.

But Lichonin suddenly felt a prickling, shameful awkwardness and
something inimical toward this woman, yesterday unknown to him,
now--his chance mistress. "The charms of the family hearth have
begun," he thought involuntarily; still, he got up from his chair,
walked up to Liubka, and having taken her by the hand, drew her to
him and patted her on the head.

"My dear, my darling sister," he said touchingly and falsely;
"that which has happened to-day must never more be repeated. In
everything only I alone am guilty, and, if you desire, I am ready
to beg forgiveness of you on my knees. Understand--oh, understand,
that all this came about against my will, somehow elementally,
suddenly, unexpectedly. And I myself didn't think that it would be
like that! You understand, for a very long time ... I have not
known woman intimately ... A repulsive, unbridled beast awoke
within me ... and ... But, Lord, is my fault so great, then? Holy
people, anchorites, recluses, ascetics, stylites, hermits in
deserts, are no match for me in fortitude of spirit--yet even they
fell in the struggle with the temptation of the diabolical flesh.
But then, I swear by whatever you wish, that this won't be
repeated any more ... Isn't that so?"

Liubka was stubbornly trying to pull his hand away from hers. Her
lips had become a little stuck out and the lowered lids began to
wink frequently.

"Ye-es," she drawled, like a child that stubbornly refuses to
"make up." "Well, I can see that I don't please you. Well, then,
you'd best tell me so straight and give me a little for a cab, and
some more, now; as much as you want ... The money for the night is
paid anyway, and I only have to ride up to ... there."

Lichonin seized his hair, flung himself about the room and began
to declaim:

"Ah, not that, not that, not that! Just understand me, Liuba! To
go on with that which happened in the morning--that's ... that's
swinishness, bestiality, and unworthy of a man who respects
himself. Love! Love--this is a full blending of minds, thoughts,
souls, interests, and not of the bodies alone. Love is a
tremendous, great emotion, mighty as the universe, and not the
sprawling in bed. There's no such love between us, Liubochka. If
it'll come, it will be wonderful happiness both for you and for
me. But in the meantime--I'm your friend, your faithful comrade,
on the path of life. And that's enough, and that will do ... And
though I'm no stranger to human frailties, still, I count myself
an honest man."

Liubka seemed to wilt. "He thinks I want him to marry me. And I
absolutely don't need that," she thought sadly. "It's possible to
live just so. There are others, now, living on maintenance. And,
they say, far better than if they had twirled around an altar.
What's so bad about that? Peaceful, quiet, genteel ... I'd darn
socks for him, wash floors, cook ... the plainer dishes. Of
course, he'll be in line to get married to a rich girl some time.
Well, now, to be sure, he wouldn't throw me out in the street just
so, mother-naked. Although he's a little simpleton, and chatters a
lot, still it's easy to tell he's a decent man. He'll provide for
me with something, somehow. And, perhaps, he'll get to like me,
will get used to me? I'm a simple girl, modest, and would never
consent to be false to him. For, they say, things do fall out that
way ... Only I mustn't let him see anything. But that he'll come
again into my bed, and will come this very night--that's as sure
as God is holy."

And Lichonin also fell into thought, grew quiet and sad; he was
already feeling the weight of a great deed which he had undertaken
beyond his powers. That was why he was even glad when some one
knocked on the door, and to his answer, "Come in!", two students
entered: Soloviev, and Nijeradze, who had slept that night at his
place.

Soloviev, well-grown and already obese, with a broad, ruddy Volga
face and a light, scandent little beard, belonged to those kindly,
merry and simple fellows, of which there are sufficiently many in
any university. He divided his leisure--and of leisure he had
twenty-four hours in the day--between the beer-shop and rambling
over the boulevards; among billiards, whist, the theatre, reading
of newspapers and novels, and the spectacles of circus wrestling;
while the short intervals in between he used for eating, sleeping,
the home repair of his wardrobe, with the aid of thread,
cardboard, pins and ink; and for succinct, most realistic love
with the chance woman from the kitchen, the anteroom or the
street. Like all the youths of his circle, he deemed himself a
revolutionary, although he was oppressed by political disputes,
dissensions, and mutual reproaches; and not being able to stand
the reading of revolutionary brochures and journals, was almost a
complete ignoramus in the work For that reason he had not attained
even the very least party initiation; although at times there were
given him instructions of a sort, not at all of a safe nature, the
meaning of which was not made clear to him. And not in vain was
his steadfast faithfulness relied upon; he carried out everything
rapidly, exactly,--with a courageous faith in the universal
importance of the work; with a care-free smile and with a broad
contempt of possible destruction. He concealed outlawed comrades,
guarded forbidden literature and printing types, transmitted
passports and money. He had a great deal of physical strength,
black-loam amiability and elemental simple-heartedness. Not
infrequently he would receive from home, somewheres in the depth
of the Simbirskaya or Ufimskaya province, sums of money
sufficiently large for a student; but in two days he scattered and
dispersed it everywhere, with the carelessness of a French grandee
of the seventeenth century, while he himself remained during
winter in only his everyday coat, with boots restored by his own
devices.

Beside all these naive, touching, laughable, lofty and shiftless
qualities of the old Russian student, passing--and God knows if
for the better?--into the realm of historical memories, he
possessed still another amazing ability--to invent money and
arrange for credit in little restaurants and cook-shops. All the
employees of pawnshops and loan offices, secret and manifest
usurers, and old-clo'-men were on terms of the closest friendship
with him.

But if for certain reasons he could not resort to them, then even
here Soloviev remained at the height of his resourcefulness. At
the head of a knot of impoverished friends, and weighed down with
his usual business responsibility, he would at times be illumined
by an inner inspiration; make at a distance, across the street, a
mysterious sign to a Tartar passing with his bundle behind his
shoulders, and for a few seconds would disappear with him into the
nearest gates. He would quickly return without his everyday coat,
only in his blouse with the skirts outside, belted with a thin
cord; or, in winter, without his overcoat, in the thinnest of
small suits; or instead of the new, just purchased uniform cap--in
a tiny jockey cap, holding by a miracle on the crown of his head.

Everybody loved him: comrades, servants, women, children. And all
were familiar with him. He enjoyed especial good-will from his
bosom cronies, the Tartars, who, apparently, deemed him a little
innocent. They would sometimes, in the summer, bring as a present
the strong, intoxicating KOUMYSS in big quartern bottles, while at
Bairam they would invite him to eat a suckling colt with them. No
matter how improbable it may seem, still, Soloviev at critical
moments gave away for safe-keeping certain books and brochures to
the Tartars. He would say at this with the most simple and
significant air: "That which I am giving you is a Great Book. It
telleth, that Allah Akbar, and that Mahomet is his prophet, that
there is much evil and poverty on earth, and that men must be
merciful and just to each other."

He also had two other abilities: he read aloud very well; and
played at chess amazingly, like a master, like a downright genius,
defeating first-class players in jest. His attack was always
impetuous and rigorous; his defense wise and cautious, preferably
in an oblique direction; his concessions to his opponent full of
refined, far-sighted calculation and murderous craftiness. With
this, he made moves as though under the influence of some inner
instinct, or inspiration; not pondering for more than four or five
seconds and resolutely despising the respected traditions.

He was not willingly played with; his manner of play was held
barbarous, but still they played, sometimes for large sums of
money; which, invariably winning, Soloviev readily laid down upon
the altar of his comrades' needs. But he steadfastly declined from
participation in competitions, which could have created for him
the position of a star in the world of chess: "There is in my
nature neither love for this nonsense, nor respect," he would say.
"I simply possess some sort of a mechanical ability of the mind,
some sort of a psychic deformity. Well, now, just as there are
lefties. And for that reason I've no professional self-respect,
nor pride at victory, nor spleen at losing."

Such was the generously built student Soloviev. And Nijeradze
filled the post of his closest comrade; which did not hinder them
both, however, from jeering at each other, disputing, and
swearing, from morning till night. God knows, wherewithal and how
the Georgian prince existed. He said of himself, that he possessed
the ability of a camel, of nourishing himself for the future, for
several weeks ahead; and then eating nothing for a month. From
home, from his blessed Georgia, he received very little; and then,
for the most part, in victuals. At Christmas, at Easter, or on his
birthday (in August) he was sent--and inevitably through arriving
fellow-countrymen--whole cargoes of hampers with mutton, grapes,
goat-flesh, sausages, dried hawthorn berries, RAKHAT LOUKOUM, egg-
plants, and very tasty cookies; as well as leathern bottles of
excellent home-made wine, strong and aromatic, but giving off just
the least bit of sheep-skin. Then the prince would summon together
to one of his comrades (he never had quarters of his own) all his
near friends and fellow-countrymen; and arranged such a
magnificent festival--TOI in Caucasian--that at it were extirpated
to the last shreds the gifts of fertile Georgia. Georgian songs
were sung, the first place, of course, being given to MRAVOL-
DJAMIEM and EVERY GUEST IS SENT DOWN TO US FROM HEAVEN BY GOD, NO
MATTER OF WHAT COUNTRY HE BE; the LEZGINKA was danced without
tiring, with table knives brandished wildly in the air; and the
TULUMBASH (or, perhaps, he is called TOMADA?) spoke his
improvisations; for the greater part Nijeradze himself spoke.

He was a great hand at talking and could, when he warmed up,
pronounce about three hundred words a minute. His style was
distinguished for mettle, pomp, and imagery; and his Caucasian
accent with characteristic lisping and throaty sounds, resembling
now the hawking of a woodcock, now the clucking of an eagle, not
only did not hinder his discourse, but somehow even strangely
adorned it. And no matter of what he spoke, he always led up the
monologue to the most beautiful, most fertile, the very foremost,
most chivalrous, and at the same time the most injured country--
Georgia. And invariably he cited lines from THE PANTHER'S SKIN of
the Georgian poet Rustavelli; with assurances, that this poem was
a thousand times above all of Shakespeare, multiplied by Homer.

Even though he was hot-headed, he was not spiteful; and in his
demeanour femininely soft, gentle, engaging, without losing his
native pride ... One thing only did his comrades dislike in him--
some exaggerated, exotic love of women. He was unshakably, unto
sacredness or folly, convinced that he was irresistibly splendid
of person; that all men envied him, all women were in love with
him, while husbands were jealous ... This self-conceited,
obtrusive dangling after women did not forsake him for a minute,
probably not even in his sleep. Walking along the street he would
every minute nudge Lichonin, Soloviev or some other companion with
his elbow, and would say, smacking his lips and jerking his head
backward at a woman who had passed by: "TSE, TSE, TSE... VAI-VAI!
A ree-markable wooman! What a look she gave me. If I wish it,
she'll be mine! ..."

This funny shortcoming about him was known; this trait of his was
ridiculed good-naturedly and unceremoniously, but willingly
forgiven for the sake of that independent comradely obligingness
and faithfulness to his word, given to a man (oaths to women did
not count), of which he was so naturally possessed. However, it
must be said that he did in reality enjoy great success with
women. Sempstresses, modistes, chorus girls, girls in candy
stores, and telephone girls melted from the intense gaze of his
heavy, soft, and languishing dark-blue eyes.

"Un-to this house and all those righteously, peacefully and
without sin inhabiting it ..." Soloviev started in to vociferate
like an arch-deacon and suddenly missed fire. "Father-prelates,"
he began to murmur in astonishment, trying to continue the
unsuccessful jest. "Why, but this is ... This is ... ah, the devil
... this is Sonya, no, my mistake, Nadya ... Well, yes! Liubka
from Anna Markovna's ..."

Liubka blushed hotly, to the verge of tears, and covered her face
with her palms. Lichonin noticed this, understood, sensed the
thoroughly agitated soul of the girl, and came to her aid. He
sternly, almost rudely, stopped Soloviev.

"Perfectly correct, Soloviev. As in a directory. Liubka from the
Yamkas. Formerly a prostitute. Even more, still yesterday a
prostitute. But from to-day--my friend, my sister. And so let
everyone, who respects me to any extent, regard her. Otherwise
..."

The ponderous Soloviev hurriedly, sincerely, and powerfully
embraced and rumpled Lichonin.

"Well, dear fellow, well, that's enough ... I committed a
stupidity in the flurry. It won't be repeated any more. Hail, my
pale-faced sister." He extended his hand with a broad sweep across
the table to Liubka, and squeezed her listless, small and short
fingers with gnawed, tiny nails. "It's fine--your coming into our
modest wigwam. This will refresh us and implant in our midst quiet
and decent customs. Alexandra! Be-er!" he began to call loudly.
"We've grown wild, coarse; have become mired in foul speech,
drunkenness, laziness and other vices. And all because we were
deprived of the salutary, pacifying influence of feminine society.
Once again I press your hand. Your charming, little hand. Beer!"

"Coming," the displeased voice of Alexandra could be heard on the
other side of the door. "I'm coming. What you yelling for? How
much do you want?"

Soloviev went out into the corridor to explain. Lichonin smiled
after him gratefully; while the Georgian on his way slapped him
benignly on the back, between his shoulder blades. Both understood
and appreciated the belated, somewhat coarse delicacy of Soloviev.

"Now," said Soloviev, coming back into the room and sitting down
cautiously upon an ancient chair, "now let's come to the order of
the day. Can I be of service to you in any way? If you'll give me
half an hour's time, I'll run down to the coffee house for a
minute and lick the guts out of the very best chess player there.
In a word--I'm at your disposal!"

"What a funny fellow you are!" said Liubka, ill at ease and
laughing. She did not understand the jocose and unusual style of
speech of the student, but something drew her simple heart to him.

"Well, that's not at all necessary," Lichonin put in. "I am as yet
beastly rich. I think we'll all go together to some little tavern
somewhere. I must have your advice about some things. After all,
you're the people closest to me; and of course not as stupid and
inexperienced as you seem at first glance. After that, I'll go and
try to arrange about her ... about Liuba's passport. You wait for
me. That won't take long ... In a word, you understand what this
whole business consists of, and won't be lavish of any superfluous
jokes. I,"--his voice quivered sentimentally and falsely--"I
desire that you take upon yourselves a part of my care. Is that a
go?"

"VA! It's a go!" exclaimed the prince (it sounded like "idiot,"
when he said it [Footnote: The Russian phrase is "Eedet!"--
Trans.]), and for some reason looked significantly at Liubka and
twirled his moustache. Lichonin gave him a sidelong look. As for
Soloviev, he said simple-heartedly:

"That's the way. You've begun something big and splendid,
Lichonin. The prince told me about it during the night. Well, what
of it, that's what youth is for--to commit sacred follies. Give me
the bottle, Alexandra, I'll open it myself, or else you'll rupture
yourself and burst a vein. To a new life, Liubochka, pardon me ...
Liubov ... Liubov ..."

"Nikonovna. But call me just as it comes ... Liuba."

"Well, yes, Liuba. Prince, ALLAHVERDI!"

"YAKSHI-OL," answered Nijeradze and clinked his glass of beer with
him.

"And I'll also say, that I rejoice over you, friend Lichonin,"
continued Soloviev, setting down his glass and licking his
moustache. "Rejoice, and bow before you. It's precisely you, only,
who are capable of such a genuinely Russian heroism, expressed
simply, modestly, without superfluous words."

"Drop it ... Well, where's the heroism?" Lichonin made a wry face.

"That's true, too," confirmed Nijeradze. "You're reproaching me
all the time that I chatter a lot, but see what nonsense you're
spouting yourself."

"That makes no difference!" retorted Soloviev. "It may be even
grandiloquent, but still that makes no difference! As an elder of
our garret commune, I declare Liuba an honourable member with full
rights!" He got up, made a sweeping gesture with his hand, and
uttered with pathos:

    "And into our house, free and fearless,
     Its charming mistress walk thou in!"

Lichonin recalled vividly, that to-day at dawn he had spoken the
very same phrase, like an actor; and even blinked his eyes from
shame.

"That's enough of tom-foolery. Let's go, gentlemen. Dress
yourself, Liuba."





CHAPTER XIV.


It was not far to The Sparrows restaurant; some two hundred steps.
On the way Liuba, unnoticed, took Lichonin by the sleeve and
pulled him toward her. In this wise they lagged a few steps behind
Soloviev and Nijeradze, who were walking ahead.

"Then you mean it seriously, my darling Vassil Vassilich?" she
asked, looking up at him with her kindly, dark eyes. "You're not
playing a joke on me?"

"What jokes can there be here, Liubochka! I'd be the lowest of men
if I permitted myself such jokes. I repeat, that to you I am more
than a friend, brother, comrade. And let's not talk about it any
more. And that which happened to-day toward morning, that, you may
be sure, won't be repeated. And I'll rent a separate room for you
this very day."

Liubka sighed. Not that she was offended by the chaste resolution
of Lichonin, in which, to tell the truth, she believed but badly;
but somehow her dark, narrow mind could not even theoretically
picture any other attitude of a man toward a woman than the
sensual. Besides that, she experienced the ancient discontent of a
preferred or rejected female; a feeling strongly intrenched in the
house of Anna Markovna, in the form of boastful rivalry, but now
dulled; yet still angry and sincere. And for some reason she
believed Lichonin but illy, unconsciously seizing much of the
assumed, not altogether sincere, in his words. Soloviev, now--
although he did speak incomprehensively, like the rest of the
majority of the students known to her, when they joked among
themselves or with the young ladies in the general room (by
themselves, in the room, all the men without an exception--all as
one--said and did one and the same thing)--she would rather
believe Soloviev, far more readily and willingly. A certain
simplicity shone in his merry, sparkling gray eyes, placed widely
apart.

At THE SPARROWS Lichonin was esteemed for his sedateness, kind
disposition, and accuracy in money matters. Because of that he was
at once assigned a little private room--an honour of which but
very few students could boast. The gas burned all day in this
room, because light penetrated only through the narrow bottom of a
window, cut short by the ceiling. Only the boots, shoes, umbrellas
and canes of the people walking by on the sidewalk could be seen
through this window.

They had to let still another student, Simanovsky (whom they ran
against near the coat room), join the party. "What does he mean,
by leading me around as though for a show?" thought Liubka: "it
looks like he's showing off before them." And, snatching a free
moment, she whispered to Lichonin, who had bent over her:

"But why are there so many people, dearie? For I'm so bashful. I
can't hold my own in company."

"That's nothing, that's nothing, my dear Liubochka," Lichonin
whispered rapidly, tarrying at the door of the cabinet. "That's
nothing, my sister; these are all fine people, good comrades.
They'll help you, help us both. Don't mind their having fun at
times and their silly lying. But their hearts are of gold."

"But it's so very awkward for me; I'm ashamed. All of them already
know where you took me from."

"Well, that's nothing, that's nothing! Why, let 'em know!" warmly
contradicted Lichonin. "Why be embarrassed with your past, why try
to pass it by in silence? In a year you'll look bravely and
directly in the eyes of every man and you'll say: 'He who has
never fallen, has never gotten up.' Come on, come on, Liubochka!"

While the inelaborate appetizers were being served, and each one
was ordering the meal, everybody, save Simanovsky, felt ill at
ease and somehow constrained. And Simanovsky himself was partly
the reason for this; he was a clean-shaven man, with pince-nez and
long hair, with head proudly thrown back and with a contemptuous
expression on the tight lips, drooping at the corners. He had no
intimate, hearty friends among his comrades; but his opinions and
judgments had a considerable authoritativeness among them. It is
doubtful whether any one of them could explain to himself whence
this influence came; whether from his self-assured appearance, his
ability to seize and express in general words the dismembered and
indistinct things which are dimly sought and desired by the
majority, or because he always saved his conclusions for the most
appropriate moment. Among any society there are many of this sort
of people: some of them act upon their circle through sophistries;
others through adamant, unalterable stead-fastness of convictions;
a third group with a loud mouth; a fourth, through a malicious
sneer; a fifth, simply by silence, which compels the supposition
of profound thought behind it; a sixth, through a chattering,
outward erudition; others still through a slashing sneer at
everything that is said ... many with the terrible Russian word
YERUNDA: "Fiddlesticks!"--"Fiddlesticks!" they say contemptuously
in reply to the warm, sincere, probably truthful but clumsily put
word. "But why fiddlesticks?" "Because it's twaddle, nonsense,"
answer they, shrugging their shoulders; and it is as though they
did for a man by hitting him with a stone over the head. There are
many more sorts of such people, bearing the bell at the head of
the meek, the shy, the nobly modest, and often even the big minds;
and to their number did Simanovsky belong.

However, toward the middle of the dinner everybody's tongue became
loosened--except Liubka's, who kept silent, answered "yes" and
"no", and left her food practically untouched. Lichonin, Soloviev,
and Nijeradze talked most of all. The first, in a decisive and
business-like manner, trying to hide under the solicitous words
something real, inward, prickling and inconvenient. Soloviev, with
a puerile delight, with the most sweeping of gestures, hitting the
table with his fist. Nijeradze, with a slight doubtfulness and
with unfinished phrases, as though he knew that which must be
said, but concealed it. The queer fate of the girl, however, had
seemingly engrossed, interested them all; and each one, in
expressing his opinion, for some reason inevitably turned to
Simanovsky. But he kept his counsel for the most part, and looked
at each one from under the glasses of his pince-nez, raising his
head high to do so.

"So, so, so," he said at last, drumming with his fingers upon the
table. "What Lichonin has done is splendid and brave. And that the
prince and Soloviev are going to meet him half-way is also very
good. I, for my part, am ready to co-operate with your beginnings
with whatever lies in my power. But will it not be better, if we
lead our friend along the path of her natural inclinations and
abilities, so to speak? Tell me, my dear," he turned to Liubka,
"what do you know, what can you do? Well, now, some kind of work,
or something. Sewing, knitting, embroidering or something."

"I don't know anything," said Liubka in a whisper, letting her
eyes drop low, all red, squeezing her fingers under the table. "I
don't understand anything of this.''

"And really, now," interposed Lichonin; "why, we haven't begun the
business from the right end. By talking about her in her presence
we merely place her in an awkward position. Just see--even her
tongue doesn't move from confusion. Let's go, Liubka, I'll escort
you home for just a little while, and return in ten minutes. And
in the meanwhile we'll think over ways and means here, without
you. All right?"

"As for me, I don't mind," almost inaudibly answered Liubka. "I'll
do just as you like, Vassil Vassilich. Only I wouldn't like to go
home."

"Why so?"

"It's awkward for me there alone. I'd best wait for you on the
boulevard, at the very entrance, on a bench."

"Ah, yes!" Lichonin recollected: "It's Alexandra who has inspired
her with such a terror. My, but I'll make it hot for this old
lizard! Well, let's go, Liubochka."

She timidly, in some sidelong way, put out her hand to each one,
folding it like a little spade; and walked out under the escort of
Lichonin.

After several minutes he returned and sat down at his place. He
felt that something had been said about him during his absence,
and he ran his eyes uneasily over his comrades. Then, putting his
hands on the table, he began:

"Gentlemen, I know that you're all good, close friends," he gave a
quick and sidelong look at Simanovsky, "and responsive people. I
heartily beg of you to come to my aid. The deed was done by me in
a hurry--this I must confess--but done through a sincere, pure
inclination of the heart."

"And that's the main thing," put in Soloviev.

"It's absolutely all one to me what acquaintances and strangers
will begin saying about me; but from my intention to save--pardon
the fool word, which slipped out--to encourage, to sustain this
girl, I will not decline. Of course, I'm able to rent an
inexpensive, small room for her; to give her something for board
at first; but what's to be done further--that's what presents
difficulties to me. The matter, of course, isn't one of money,
which I'd always find for her; but, then, to compel her to eat,
drink, and with all that to do nothing--that would mean to condemn
her to idleness, indifference, apathy; and you know what the end
will be then. Therefore, we must think of some occupation for her.
And that's the very matter which we must exert our brains about.
Make an effort, gentlemen; advise something."

"We must know what she's fitted for," said Simanovsky. "For she
must have been doing something before getting into the house."

Lichonin, with an air of hopelessness, spread out his hands.

"Almost nothing. She can sew just the least bit, just like any
country lass. Why, she wasn't fifteen when some government clerk
led her astray. She can sweep up a room, wash a little, and, if
you will, cook cabbage soup and porridge. Nothing more, it seems."

"Rather little," said Simanovsky, and clacked his tongue.

"And in addition to that, she's illiterate as well."

"But that's not at all important!" warmly defended Soloviev. "If
we had to do with a well-educated girl, or, worse still, with a
half-educated one, then only nonsense would result out of all that
we're preparing to do, a mere soap-bubble; while here before us is
maiden ground, untouched virgin soil."

"He-ee!" Nijeradze started neighing equivocally.

Soloviev, now no longer joking, but with real wrath, pounced upon
him:

"Listen, prince! Every holy thought, every good deed, can be made
disgusting, obscene. There's nothing clever or worthy in that. If
you regard that which we're preparing to do so like a stallion,
then there's the door and God be with you. Go away from us!"

"Yes, but you yourself just now in the room ..." retorted the
prince in confusion.

"Yes, I too," Soloviev at once softened and cooled down. "I popped
out with a stupidity and I regret it. But now I willingly admit
that Lichonin is a fine fellow and a splendid man; and I'm ready
to do everything, for my part. And I repeat, that knowledge of
reading and writing is a secondary matter. It is easy to attain it
in play. For such an untouched mind to learn reading, writing,
counting, and especially without school, of one's free will, is
like biting a nut in two. And as far as a manual trade is
concerned, through which it would be possible to live and earn
one's keep, then there are hundreds of trades, which can be easily
mastered in two weeks."

"For instance?" asked the prince.

"Well, for instance ... for instance ... well, now, for instance,
making artificial flowers. Yes, and still better, to get a place
as a flower clerk. A charming business, clean and nice."

"Taste is necessary," Simanovsky dropped carelessly.

"There are no inborn tastes, as well as abilities. Otherwise
talents would be born only in refined, highly educated society;
while artists would be born only to artists, and singers to
singers; but we don't see this. However, I won't argue. Well, if
not a flower girl, then something else. I, for instance, saw not
long ago in a store show window a miss sitting, and some sort of a
little machine with foot-power before her."

"V-VA! Again a little machine!" said the prince, smiling and
looking at Lichonin.

"Stop it, Nijeradze," answered Lichonin, quietly but sternly. "You
ought to be ashamed."

"Blockhead!" Soloviev threw at him, and continued.

"So, then, the machine moves back and forth, while upon it, on a
square frame, is stretched a thin canvas, and really, I don't know
how it's contrived, I didn't grasp it; only the miss guides some
metallic thingamajig over the screen, and there comes out a fine
drawing in vari-coloured silks. Just imagine, a lake, all grown
over with pond-lilies with their white corollas and yellow
stamens, and great green leaves all around. And on the water two
white swans are floating toward each other, and in the background
is a dark park with an alley; and all this shows finely,
distinctly, as on a picture from life. And I became so interested
that I went in on purpose to find out how much it costs. It proved
to be just the least bit dearer than an ordinary sewing machine,
and it's sold on terms. And any one who can sew a little on a
common machine can learn this art in an hour. And there's a great
number of charming original designs. And the main thing is that
such work is very readily taken for fire-screens, albums, lamp-
shades, curtains and other rubbish, and the pay is decent."

"After all, that's a sort of a trade, too," agreed Lichonin, and
stroked his beard in meditation. "But, to confess, here's what I
wanted to do. I wanted to open up for her ... to open up a little
cook-shop or dining room, the very tiniest to start with, of
course, but one in which all the food is cheap, clean and tasty.
For it's absolutely all the same to many students where they dine
and what they eat. There are almost never enough places to go
round in the students' dining room. And so we may succeed,
perhaps, in pulling in all our acquaintances and friends,
somehow."

"That's true," said the prince, "but impractical as well; we'll
begin to board on credit. And you know what accurate payers we
are. A practical man, a knave, is needed for such an undertaking;
and if a woman, then one with a pike's teeth; and even then a man
must absolutely stick right at her back. Really, it's not for
Lichonin to stand at the counter and to watch that somebody
shouldn't suddenly wine and dine and slip away."

Lichonin looked straight at him, insolently, but only set his jaws
and let it pass in silence.

Simanovsky began in his measured, incontrovertible tone, toying
with the glasses of his PINCE-NEZ:

"Your intention is splendid, gentlemen, beyond dispute. But have
you turned your attention to a certain shady aspect, so to speak?
For to open a dining room, to start some business--all this in the
beginning demands money, assistance--somebody else's back, so to
speak. The money is not grudged--that is true, I agree with
Lichonin; but then, does not such a beginning of an industrious
life, when every step is provided for--does it not lead to
inevitable laxity and negligence, and, in the very end, to an
indifferent disdain for business? Even a child does not learn to
walk until it has flopped down some fifty times. No; if you really
want to help this poor girl, you must give her a chance of getting
on her feet at once, like a toiling being, and not like a drone.
True, there is a great temptation here--the burden of labour,
temporary need; but then, if she will surmount this, she will
surmount the rest as well."

"What, then, according to you, is she to become--a dish-washer?"
asked Soloviev with unbelief.

"Well, yes," calmly retorted Simanovsky. "A dish-washer, a
laundress, a cook. All toil elevates a human being."

Lichonin shook his head.

"Words of gold. Wisdom itself speaks with your lips, Simanovsky.
Dish-washer, cook, maid, housekeeper ... but, in the first place,
it's doubtful if she's capable for that; in the second place, she
has already been a maid and has tasted all the sweets of masters'
bawlings out, and masters' pinches behind doors, in the corridor.
Tell me, is it possible you don't know that ninety per cent, of
prostitution is recruited from the number of female servants? And,
therefore, poor Liuba, at the very first injustice, at the first
rebuff, will the more easily and readily go just there where I
have gotten her out of; if not even worse, because for her that's
customary and not so frightful; and, perhaps, it will even seem
desirable after the masters' treatment. And besides that, is it
worth while for me--that is, I want to say--is it worth while for
all of us, to go to so much trouble, to try so hard and put
ourselves out so, if, after having saved a being from one slavery,
we only plunge her into another?"

"Right," confirmed Soloviev.

"Just as you wish," drawled Simanovsky with a disdainful air.

"But as far as I'm concerned," said the prince, "I'm ready, as a
friend and a curious man, to be present at this experiment and to
participate in it. But even this morning I warned you, that there
have been such experiments before and that they have always ended
in ignominious failure, at least those of which we know
personally; while those of which we know only by hearsay are
dubious as regards authenticity. But you have begun the business--
and go on with it. We are your helpers."

Lichonin struck the table with his palm.

"No!" he exclaimed stubbornly. "Simanovsky is partly right
concerning the great danger of a person's being led in leading
strings. But I don't see any other way out. In the beginning I'll
help her with room and board... find some easy work, buy the
necessary accessories for her. Let be what may! And let us do
everything in order to educate her mind a little; and that her
heart and soul are beautiful, of that I am sure. I've no grounds
for the faith, but I am sure, I almost know. Nijeradze! Don't
clown!" he cried abruptly, growing pale, "I've restrained myself
several times already at your fool pranks. I have until now held
you as a man of conscience and feeling. One more inappropriate
witticism, and I'll change my opinion of you; and know, that it's
forever."

"Well, now, I didn't mean anything... Really, I... Why go all up
in the air, me soul? You don't like that I'm a gay fellow, well,
I'll be quiet. Give me your hand, Lichonin, let's drink!"

"Well, all right, get away from me. Here's to your health! Only
don't behave like a little boy, you Ossetean ram. Well, then, I
continue, gentlemen. If we find anything which might satisfy the
just opinion of Simanovsky about the dignity of independent toil,
unsustained by anything, then I shall stick to my system: to teach
Liuba whatever is possible, to take her to the theatre, to
expositions, to popular lectures, to museums; to read aloud to
her, give her the possibility of hearing music--comprehensible
music, of course. It's understood, I alone won't be able to manage
all this. I expect help from you; and after that, whatever God may
will."

"Oh, well," said Simanovsky, "the work is new, not threadbare; and
how can we know the unknowable--perhaps you, Lichonin, will become
the spiritual father of a good being. I, too, offer my services."

"And I! And I!" the other two seconded; and right there, without
getting up from the table, the four students worked out a very
broad and very wondrous program of education and enlightenment for
Liubka.

Soloviev took upon himself to teach the girl grammar and writing.
In order not to tire her with tedious lessons, and as a reward for
successes, he would read aloud for her artistic fiction, Russian
and foreign, easy of comprehension. Lichonin left for himself the
teaching of arithmetic, geography and history.

While the prince said simple-heartedly, without his usual
facetiousness this time:

"I, my children, don't know anything; while that which I do know,
I know very badly. But I'll read to her the remarkable production
of the great Georgian poet Rustavelli, and translate it line by
line. I confess to you, that I'm not much of a pedagogue: I tried
to be a tutor, but they politely chased me out after only the
second lesson. Still, no one can teach better playing on a guitar,
mandolin, and the bagpipes!"

Nijeradze was speaking with perfect seriousness, and for that
reason Lichonin with Soloviev good-naturedly started laughing; but
with entire unexpectedness, to the general amazement of all,
Simanovsky sustained him.

"The prince speaks common sense. To have the mastery of an
instrument elevates the aesthetic sense, in any case; and is even
a help in life. And I, for my part, gentlemen ... I propose to
read with the young person the CAPITAL of Marx, and the history of
human culture. And to take up chemistry and physics with her,
besides."

If it were not for the customary authority of Simanovsky and the
importance with which he spoke, the remaining three would have
burst into laughter in his face. They only stared at him, with
eyes popping out.

"Well, yes," continued Simanovsky imperturbably, "I'll show her a
whole series of chemical and physical experiments, which it is
possible to carry on at home; which are always amusing and
beneficial to the mind; and which eradicate prejudices.
Incidentally, I'll explain something of the structure of the
world, of the properties of matter. And as far as Karl Marx is
concerned, just remember, that great books are equally accessible
to the understanding both of a scholar and an unlettered peasant,
if only comprehensibly presented. And every great thought is
simple."

Lichonin found Liubka at the place agreed upon, on a bench of the
boulevard. She went home with him very unwillingly. Just as
Lichonin had supposed, meeting the grumbling Alexandra was a
fearful thing to her, who had long since grown unused to every-day
actuality; harsh, and plentiful with all sorts of
unpleasantnesses. And besides that, the fact that Lichonin did not
want to conceal her past acted oppressively upon her. But she, who
had long ago lost her will in the establishment of Anna Markovna,
deprived of her personality, ready to follow after the call of
every stranger, did not tell him a word and walked after him.

The crafty Alexandra had already managed during this time to run
to the superintendent of the houses and to complain to him, that,
now, Lichonin had come with some miss, had passed the night with
her in the room; but who she is, that Alexandra don't know; that
Lichonin says she is his first cousin, like; but did not present a
passport. It was necessary to explain things at great length,
diffusedly and tiresomely, to the superintendent, a coarse and
insolent man, who bore himself to all the tenants in the house as
toward a conquered city; and feared only the students slightly,
because they gave him a severe rebuff at times. Lichonin
propitiated him only when he rented on the spot another room,
several rooms away from his, for Liubka; under the very slope of
the roof, so that it represented on the inside a sharply cut-off,
low, four-sided pyramid, with one little window.

"But still, Mr. Lichonin, just you present the passport to-morrow
without fail," said the superintendent insistently at parting.
"Since you're a respectable man, hard-working, and you and I are
long acquainted, also you pay punctually, I am willing to do it
only for you. You know yourself what hard times these are. If some
one tells on me, they'll not only fire me, but they can put me out
of town as well. They're strict now."

In the evening Lichonin strolled with Liubka through Prince Park,
listened to the music playing in the aristocratic club, and
returned home early. He escorted Liubka to the door of her room
and at once took leave of her; kissing her, however, tenderly on
the brow, like a father. But after ten minutes, when he was
already lying in bed undressed and reading the statutes of state,
Liubka, having scratched on his door like a cat, suddenly entered
his room.

"Darling, sweetie! Excuse me for troubling you. Haven't you a
needle and thread? But don't get angry at me; I'll go away at
once."

"Liuba! I beg of you to go away not at once, but this second.
Finally, I demand it!"

"My dearie, my pretty," Liubka began to intone laughably and
piteously, "well, what are you yelling at me for all the time?"
and, in a moment, having blown upon the candle, she nestled up to
him in the darkness, laughing and crying.

"No, Liuba, this must not be. It's impossible to go on like this,"
Lichonin was saying ten minutes later, standing at the door,
wrapped up in his blanket, like a Spanish hidalgo in a cape. "To-
morrow at the latest I'll rent a room for you in another house.
And, in general, don't let this occur! God be with you, and good
night! Still, you must give me your word of honour that our
relations will be merely friendly."

"I give it, dearie, I give it, I give it, I give it!" she began to
prattle, smiling; and quickly smacked him first on the lips and
then on his hand.

The last action was altogether instinctive; and, perhaps,
unexpected even to Liubka herself. Never yet in her life had she
kissed any man's hand, save a priest's. Perhaps she wanted to
express through this her gratitude to Lichonin, and a prostration
before him as before a higher being.





CHAPTER XV.


Among Russian intelligents, as has already been noted by many,
there is a decent quantity of wonderful people; true children of
the Russian land and culture, who would be able heroically,
without the quivering of a single muscle, to look straight in the
face of death; who are capable for the sake of an idea of bearing
unconceivable privations and sufferings, equal to torture; but
then, these people are lost before the haughtiness of a doorman;
shrink from the yelling of a laundress; while into a police
station they enter in an insufferable and timid distress. And
precisely such a one was Lichonin. On the following day (yesterday
it had been impossible on account of a holiday and the lateness),
having gotten up very early and recollecting that to-day he had to
take care of Liubka's passport, he felt just as bad as when in
former times, as a high-school boy, he went to an examination,
knowing that he would surely fall through. His head ached, while
his arms and legs somehow seemed another's; in addition, a
drizzling and seemingly dirty rain had been falling on the street
since morning. "Always, now, when there's some unpleasantness in
store, there is inevitably a rain falling," reflected Lichonin,
dressing slowly.

It was not especially far from his street to the Yamskaya, not
more than two-thirds of a mile. In general, he was not
infrequently in those parts, but he had never had occasion to go
there in the daytime; and on the way it seemed to him all the time
that every one he met, every cabby and policeman, was looking at
him with curiosity, with reproach, or with disdain, as though
surmising the destination of his journey. As always on a nasty and
muggy morning, all the faces that met his eyes seemed pale, ugly,
with monstrously underlined defects. Scores of times he imagined
all that he would say in the beginning at the house; and later at
the station house; and every time the outcome was different. Angry
at himself for this premature rehearsal, he would at times stop
himself:

"Ah! You mustn't think, you mustn't presuppose what you're going
to say. It always turns out far better when it's done right
off..."

And then again imaginary dialogues would run through his head:

"You have no right to hold this girl against her wish."

"Yes, but let her herself give notice about going away."

"I act at her instruction."

"All right; but how can you prove this?" and again he would
mentally cut himself short.

The city common began, on which cows were browsing; a board
sidewalk along a fence; shaky little bridges over little brooklets
and ditches. Then he turned into the Yamskaya. In the house of
Anna Markovna all the windows were closed with shutters, with
openings, in the form of hearts, cut out in the middle. And all of
the remaining houses on the deserted street, desolated as though
after a pestilence, were closed as well. With a contracting heart
Lichonin pulled the bell-handle.

A maid, barefooted, with skirt caught up, with a wet rag in her
hand, with face striped from dirt, answered the bell--she had just
been washing the floor.

"I'd like to see Jennka," timidly requested Lichonin.

"Well, now, the young lady is busy with a guest. They haven't
waked up yet."

"Well, Tamara then."

The maid looked at him mistrustfully.

"Miss Tamara--I don't know... I think she's busy too. But what you
want--to pay a visit, or what?"

"Ah, isn't it all the same! A visit, let's say."

"I don't know. I'll go and look. Wait a while."

She went away, leaving Lichonin in the half-dark drawing room. The
blue pillars of dust, coming from the openings in the shutters,
pierced the heavy obscurity in all directions. Like hideous spots
stood out of the gray murkiness the bepainted furniture and the
sweetish oleographs on the walls. It smelt of yesterday's tobacco,
of dampness, sourness; and of something else peculiar,
indeterminate, uninhabited, of which places that are lived in only
temporarily always smell in the morning--such as empty theatres,
dance-halls, auditoriums. Far off in the city a droshky rumbled
intermittently. The wall-clock monotonously ticked behind the
wall. In a strange agitation Lichonin walked back and forth
through the drawing room and rubbed and kneaded his trembling
hands, and for some reason was stooping and felt cold.

"I shouldn't have started all this false comedy," he thought with
irritation. "It goes without saying that I've now become the by-
word of the entire university. The devil nudged me! And even
during the day yesterday it wasn't too late, when she was saying
that she was ready to go back. All I had to do was to give her for
a cabby and a little pin money, and she'd have gone, and all would
have been fine; and I would be independent now, free, and wouldn't
be undergoing this tormenting and ignominious state of spirits.
But it's too late to retreat now. To-morrow it'll be still later,
and the day after to-morrow--still more. Having pulled off one
fool stunt, it must be immediately put a stop to; but on the other
hand, if you don't do that in time, it draws two others after it,
and they--twenty new ones. Or, perhaps, it's not too late now? Why,
she's silly, undeveloped, and, probably, a hysteric, like the rest
of them. She's an animal, fit only for stuffing herself and for
the bed. Oh! The devil!" Lichonin forcefully squeezed his cheeks
and his forehead between his hands and shut his eyes. "And if I
had but held out against the common, coarse, physical temptation!
There, you see for yourself, this has happened twice already; and
then it'll go on and on ..."

But side by side with these ran other thoughts, opposed to them:

"But then, I'm a man. I am master of my word. For that which urged
me on to this deed was splendid, noble, lofty. I remember very
well that rapture which seized me when my thought transpired into
action! That was a pure, tremendous feeling. Or was it simply an
extravagance of the mind, whipped up by alcohol; the consequence
of a sleepless night, smoking, and long, abstract conversations?"

And immediately Liubka would appear before him, appear at a
distance, as though out of the misty depths of time; awkward,
timid, with her homely and endearing face, which had at once come
to seem of infinitely close kinship; long, long familiar, and at
the same time unpleasant--unjustly, without cause.

"Can it be that I'm a coward and a rag?" cried Lichonin inwardly
and wrung his hands. "What am I afraid of, before whom am I
embarrassed? Have I not always prided myself upon being sole
master of my life? Let's suppose, even, that the phantasy, the
extravagance, of making a psychological experiment upon a human
soul--a rare experiment, unsuccessful in ninety-nine percent--has
entered my head. Is it possible that I must render anybody an
account in this, or fear anybody's opinion? Lichonin! Look down
upon mankind from above!"

Jennie walked into the room, dishevelled, sleepy, in a night
jacket on top of a white underskirt.

"A-a!" she yawned, extending her hand to Lichonin. "How d'you do,
my dear student! How does your Liubochka feel herself in the new
place? Call me in as a guest some time. Or are you spending your
honeymoon on the quiet? Without any outside witnesses?"

"Drop the silly stuff, Jennechka. I came about the passport."

"So-o. About the passport," Jennka went into thought. "That is,
there's no passport here, but you must take a blank from the
housekeeper. You understand, our usual prostitute's blank; and
then they'll exchange it for you for a real book at the station
house. Only you see, my dear, I will be but ill help to you in
this business. They are as like as not to beat me up if I come
near a housekeeper or a porter. But here's what you do. You'd best
send the maid for the housekeeper; tell her to say that a certain
guest, now, a steady one, has come on business; that it's very
urgent to see her personally. But you must excuse me--I'm going to
back out, and don't you be angry, please. You know yourself--
charity begins at home. But why should you hang around by yourself
in this here darkness? You'd better go into the cabinet. If you
want to, I'll send you beer there. Or, perhaps you want coffee? Or
else," and her eyes sparkled slyly, "or else a girlie, perhaps?
Tamara is busy, but may be Niura or Verka will do?"

"Stop it, Jennie! I came about a serious and important matter, but
you ..."

"Well, well, I won't, I won't! I said it just so. I see that you
observe faithfulness. That's very noble on your part. Let's go,
then."

She led him into the cabinet, and, opening the inner bolt of the
shutter, threw it wide open. The daylight softly and sadly
splashed against the red and gold walls, over the candelabra, over
the soft red velveteen furniture.

"Right here it began," reflected Lichonin with sad regret.

"I am going," said Jennka. "Don't you knuckle down too much before
her, and Simeon too. Abuse them for all you're worth. It's daytime
now, and they won't dare do anything to you. If anything happens,
tell them straight that, now, you're going to the governor
immediately and are going to tell on them. Tell 'em, that they'll
be closed up and put out of town in twenty-four hours. Bawl 'em
out and they get like silk. Well, now, I wish you success."

She went away. After ten minutes had passed, into the cabinet
floated Emma Edwardovna, the housekeeper, in a blue satin PEGNOIR;
corpulent, with an important face, broadening from the forehead
down to the cheeks, just like a monstrous squash; with all her
massive chins and breasts; with small, keen eyes, without
eyelashes; with thin, malicious, compressed lips. Lichonin,
arising, pressed the puffy hand extended to him, studded with
rings, and suddenly thought with aversion:

"The devil take it! If this vermin had a soul, if it were possible
to read this soul--then how many direct and indirect murders are
lurking hidden within it!"

It must be said, that in starting out for the Yamkas, Lichonin,
besides money, had fetched a revolver along with him; and on the
road, while walking, he had frequently shoved his hand into his
pocket and had there felt the chill contact of the metal. He
expected affront, violence, and was prepared to meet them in a
suitable manner. But, to his amazement, all that he had
presupposed and had feared proved a timorous, fantastic fiction.
The business was far more simple, more wearisome and more prosaic,
and at the same time more unpleasant.

"JA, MEIN HERR," said the housekeeper indifferently and somewhat
loftily, settling into a low chair and lighting a cigarette. "You
pay for one night and instead of that took already the girl for
one more night and one more day. ALSO, you owe twenty-five more
roubles yet. When we let off a girlie for a night we take ten
roubles, and for the twenty-four hours twenty-five roubles. That's
a tax, like. Don't you want a smoke, young man?" she stretched out
her case, and Lichonin, without himself knowing why, took a
cigarette.

"I wanted to talk with you about something else entirely."

"O! Don't trouble yourself to speak: I understand everything very
well. Probably the young man wants to take these girl, those
Liubka, altogether to himself to set her up, or in order to--how
do you Russians call it?--in order to safe her? Yes, yes, yes,
that happens. Twenty-two years I live in a brothel, and I know,
that this happens with very foolish young peoples. But only I
assure you, that from this will come nothing out."

"Whether it will come out or whether it won't come out--that is
already my affair," answered Lichonin dully, looking down at his
fingers, trembling on his knees.

"O, of course, it's your affair, my young student," and the flabby
cheeks and majestic chins of Emma Edwardovna began to jump from
inaudible laughter. "From my soul I wish for you love and
friendship; but only trouble yourself to tell this nasty creature,
this Liubka, that she shouldn't dare to show even her nose here,
when you throw her out into the street like a little doggie. Let
her croak from hunger under a fence, or go into a half-rouble
establishment for the soldiers!"

"Believe me, she won't return. I ask you merely to give me her
certificate, without delay."

"The certificate? ACH, if you please! Even this very minute. Only
I will first trouble you to pay for everything that she took here
on credit. Have a look, here is her account book. I took it along
with me on purpose. I knew already with what our conversation
would end." She took out of the slit of her PEGNOIR--showing
Lichonin for just a minute her fat, full-fleshed, yellow, enormous
breast--a little book in a black cover, with the heading: ACCOUNT
OF MISS IRENE VOSCHHENKOVA IN THE HOUSE OF ILL-FAME, MAINTAINED BY
ANNA MARKOVNA SHAIBES, ON YAM-SKAYA STREET, NO. SO-AND-SO, and
extended it to him across the table. Lichonin turned over the
first page and read through four or five paragraphs of the printed
rules. There dryly and briefly it was stated that the account book
consists of two copies, of which one is kept by the proprietress
while the other remains with the prostitute; that all income and
expense were entered into both books; that by agreement the
prostitute receives board, quarters, heat, light, bed linen, baths
and so forth, and for this pays out to the proprietress in no case
more than two-thirds of her earnings; while out of the remaining
money she is bound to dress neatly and decently, having no less
than two dresses for going out. Further, mention was made of the
fact that payment was made with the help of stamps, which the
proprietress gives out to the prostitute upon receipt of money
from her; while the account is drawn up at the end of every month.
And, finally, that the prostitute can at any time leave the house
of prostitution, even if there does remain a debt of hers, which,
however, she binds herself to cancel on the basis of general civil
laws.

Lichonin prodded the last point with his finger, and, having
turned the face of the book to the housekeeper, said triumphantly:

"Aha! There, you see: she has the right to leave the house at any
time. Consequently, she can at any time quit your abominable dive
of violence, baseness, and depravity, in which you ..." Lichonin
began rattling off, but the housekeeper calmly cut him short:

"O! I have no doubt of this. Let her go away. Let her only pay the
money."

"What about promissory notes? She can give promissory notes."

"Pst! Promissory notes! In the first place, she's illiterate;
while in the second, what are her promissory notes worth? A spit
and no more. Let her find a surety who would be worthy of trust,
and then I have nothing against it."

"But, then, there's nothing said in the rules about sureties."

"There's many a thing not said! In the rules it also does not say
that it's permitted to carry a girlie out of the house, without
giving warning to the owners."

"But in any case you'll have to give me her blank."

"I will never do such a foolishness! Come here with some
respectable person and with the police; and let the police certify
that this friend of yours is a man of means; and let this man
stand surety for you; and let, besides that, the police certify
that you are not taking the girl in order to trade in her, or to
sell her over to another stablishment--then as you please! Hand
and foot!"

"The devil!" exclaimed Lichonin. "But if that surety will be I, I
myself! If I'll sign your promissory notes right away ..."

"Young man! I don't know what you are taught in your different
universities, but is it possible that you reckon me such a
positive fool? God grant, that you have, besides those which are
on you, still some other pants! God grant, that you should even
the day after have for dinner the remnants of sausages from the
sausage shop, and yet you say--a promissory note! What are you
bothering my head for?"

Lichonin grew completely angry. He drew his wallet out of his
pocket and slapped it down on the table.

"In that case I pay in cash and immediately!"

"ACH, that's a business of another kind," sweetly, but still with
mistrust, the housekeeper intoned. "I will trouble you to turn the
page, and see what the bill of your beloved is."

"Keep still, you carrion!"

"I'm still, you fool," calmly responded the housekeeper.

On the small ruled pages on the left side was designated the
income, on the right were the expenses.

"Received in stamps, 15th of April," read Lichonin, "10 roubles;
16th--4 roubles; 17th--12 roubles; 18th--sick; 19th--sick; 20th--6
roubles; 21st--24 roubles"

"My God!" with loathing, with horror, reflected Lichonin. "Twelve
men in one night!"

At the end of the month stood:

"Total 330 roubles."

"Lord! Why, this is some sort of delirium! One hundred and sixty-
five visits," thought Lichonin, having mechanically calculated it,
and still continued turning the pages. Then he went over to the
columns on the right.

"Made, a red dress of silk with lace 84 roubles Dressmaker
Eldokimova. Dressing sack of lace 35 roubles Dressmaker
Eldokimova. Silk stockings 6 pair 36 roubles," &c., &c. "Given for
cab-fare, given for candy, perfumes bought," &c., &c. "Total 205
roubles." After that from the 330 roubles were deducted 220
roubles--the share of the proprietress for board and lodging. The
figure of 110 roubles resulted. The end of the monthly account
declared:

"Total after the payment to the dressmaker and for other articles,
of 110 roubles, a debt of ninety-five (95) roubles remains for
Irene Voschhenkova and with the four hundred and eighteen roubles
remaining from last year--five hundred and thirteen (513)
roubles."

Lichonin's spirits fell. He did try, at first, to be indignant at
the expensiveness of the materials supplied; but the housekeeper
retorted with SANG FROID that that did not concern her at all;
that the establishment demanded only that the girl dress decently,
as becomes a girl from a decent, genteel house; while it did not
concern itself with the rest. The establishment merely extended
her credit in paying her expenses.

"But this is a vixen, a spider in human shape--this dressmaker of
yours!" yelled Lichonin beside himself. "Why, she's in a
conspiracy with you, cupping glass that you are, you abominable
tortoise! Scuttlefish! Where's your conscience?"

The more agitated he grew, the more calm and jeering Emma
Edwardovna became.

"Again I repeat: that is not my business. And you, young man,
don't express yourself like that, because I will call the porter,
and he will throw you out of the door."

Lichonin was compelled to bargain with the cruel woman long,
brutally, till he grew hoarse, before she agreed, in the end, to
take two hundred and fifty roubles in cash, and two hundred
roubles in promissory notes. And even that only when Lichonin with
his half-yearly certificate proved to her that he was finishing
this year and would become a lawyer.

The housekeeper went after the ticket, while Lichonin took to
pacing the cabinet back and forth. He had already looked over all
the pictures on the walls: Leda with the swan, and the bathing on
the shore of the sea, and the odalisque in a harem, and the satyr,
bearing a naked nymph in his arms; but suddenly a small printed
placard, framed and behind glass, half covered by a portiere,
attracted his attention. It was the first time that it had come
across Lichonin's eyes, and the student with amazement and
aversion read these lines, expressed in the dead, official
language of police stations. There with shameful, businesslike
coldness, were mentioned all possible measures and precautions
against infections; the intimacies of feminine toilet; the weekly
medical inspections and all the adaptations for them. Lichonin
also read that no establishment was to be situated nearer than a
hundred steps from churches, places of learning, and court
buildings; that only persons of the female sex may maintain houses
of prostitution; that only her relatives, and even then of the
female sex exclusively, and none older than seven years, may live
with the proprietress; and that the proprietors and the owners of
the house, as well as the girls, must in their relations among
themselves and the guests as well, observe politeness, quiet,
civility and decency, by no means allowing themselves drunkenness,
swearing and brawls. And also that the prostitute must not allow
herself the caresses of love when in an intoxicated condition or
with an intoxicated man; and in addition to that, during the time
of certain functions. Here also the prostitutes were most strictly
forbidden to commit abortions. "What a serious and moral view of
things!" reflected Lichonin with a malicious sneer.

Finally the business with Emma Edwarodvna was concluded. Having
taken the money and written out a receipt, she stretched it out to
Lichonin together with the blank, while he stretched out the money
to her; at which, during the time of the operation, they both
looked at each other's eyes and hands intently and warily. It was
apparent that they both felt no especially great mutual trust.
Lichonin put the documents away in his wallet and was preparing to
depart. The housekeeper escorted him to the very stoop, and when
the student was already standing in the street, she, remaining on
the steps, leaned out and called after him:

"Student! Hey! Student!"

He stopped and turned around.

"What now?"

"And here's another thing. Now I must tell you, that your Liubka
is trash, a thief, and sick with syphilis! None of our good guests
wanted to take her; and anyway, if you had not taken her, then we
would have thrown her out to-morrow! I will also tell you, that
she had to do with the porter, with policemen, with janitors, and
with petty thieves. Congratulations on your lawful marriage!"

"Oo-ooh! Vermin!" Lichonin roared back at her.

"You green blockhead!" called out the housekeeper and banged the
door.

Lichonin went to the station house in a cab. On the way he
recalled that he had not had time to look at the blank properly,
at this renowned "yellow ticket," of which he had heard so much.
This was an ordinary small white sheet, no larger than a postal
envelope. On one side, in the proper column, were written out the
name, father's name, and family name of Liubka, and her
profession--"Prostitute"; and on the other side, concise extracts
from the paragraphs of that placard which he had just read
through--infamous, hypocritical rules about behaviour and external
and internal cleanliness. "Every visitor." he read, "has the right
to demand from the prostitute the written certificate of the
doctor who has inspected her the last time." And again sentimental
pity overcame the heart of Lichonin.

"Poor women!" he reflected with grief. "What only don't they do
with you, how don't they abuse you, until you grow accustomed to
everything, just like blind horses on a treadmill!" In the station
house he was received by the district inspector, Kerbesh. He had
spent the night on duty, had not slept his fill, and was angry.
His luxurious, fan-shaped red beard was crumpled. The right half
of the ruddy face was still crimsonly glowing from lying long on
the uncomfortable oilcloth pillow. But the amazing, vividly blue
eyes, cold and luminous, looked clear and hard, like blue
porcelain. Having ended interrogating, recording, and cursing out
with obscenities the throng of ragamuffins, taken in during the
night for sobering up and now being sent out over their own
districts, he threw himself against the back of the divan, put his
hands behind his neck, and stretched with all his enormous, heroic
body so hard that all his ligaments and joints cracked. He looked
at Lichonin just as at a thing, and asked:

"And what will you have, Mr. Student?"

Lichonin stated his business briefly.

"And so I want," he concluded, to take her to me ... how is this
supposed to be done with you? ... in the capacity of a servant,
or, if you want, a relative, in a word ... how is it done? ..."

"Well, in the capacity of a kept mistress or a wife, let's say,"
indifferently retorted Kerbesh and twirled in his hands a silver
cigar case with monograms and little figures. "I can do absolutely
nothing for you ... at least right now. If you desire to marry
her, present a suitable permit from your university authorities.
But if you're taking her on maintenance--then just think, where's
the logic in that? You're taking a girl out of a house of
depravity, in order to live with her in depraved cohabitation."

"A servant, finally," Lichonin put in.

"And even a servant. I'd trouble you to present an affidavit from
your landlord--for, I hope, you're not a houseowner? Very well,
then, an affidavit from your landlord, as to your being in a
position to keep a servant; and besides that, all the documents,
testifying that you're that very person you give yourself out to
be; an affidavit, for instance, from your district and from the
university, and all that sort of thing. For you, I hope, are
registered? Or, perhaps, you are now, eh? ... Of the illegal ones?

"No, I am registered!" retorted Lichonin, beginning to lose
patience.

"And that's splendid. But the young lady, about whom you're
troubling yourself?"

"No, she's not registered as yet. But I have her blank in my
possession, which, I hope, you'll exchange for a real passport for
me, and then I'll register her at once."

Kerbesh spread his arms out wide, then again began toying with the
cigar case.

"Can't do anything for you, Mr. Student, just nothing at all,
until you present all the papers required. As far as the girl's
concerned, why, she, as one not having the right of residence,
will be sent to the police without delay, and there detained;
unless she personally desires to go there, where you've taken her
from. I've the honour of wishing you good day."

Lichonin abruptly pulled his hat over his eyes and went toward the
door. But suddenly an ingenious thought flashed through his head,
from which, however, he himself became disgusted. And feeling
nausea in the pit of his stomach, with clammy, cold hands,
experiencing a sickening pinching in his toes, he again walked up
to the table and said as though carelessly, but with a catch in
his voice:

"Pardon me, inspector. I've forgotten the most important thing; a
certain mutual acquaintance of ours has instructed me to transmit
to you a small debt of his."

"Hm! An acquaintance?" asked Kerbesh, opening wide his magnificent
azure eyes. "And who may he be?"

"Bar ... Barbarisov."

"Ah, Barbarisov? So, so, so, I recollect, I recollect!"

"So then, won't you please accept these ten roubles?"

Kerbesh shook his head, but did not take the bit of paper.

"Well, but this Barbarisov of yours--that is, ours--is a swine. It
isn't ten roubles he owes me at all, but a quarter of a century.
What a scoundrel! Twenty-five roubles and some small change
besides. Well, the small change, of course, I won't count up to
him. God be with him! This, you see, is a billiard debt. I must
say that he's a blackguard, plays crookedly ... And so, young man,
dig up fifteen more."

"Well, but you are a knave, Mr. Inspector!" said Lichonin, getting
out the money.

"Oh, mercy!" by now altogether good-naturedly retorted Kerbesh. "A
wife, children ... You know yourself what our salary is ...
Receive the little passport, young man. Sign your receipt. Best
wishes."

A queer thing! The consciousness that the passport was, finally,
in his pocket, for some reason suddenly calmed and again braced up
and elevated Lichonin's nerves.

"Oh, well!" he thought, walking quickly along the street, "the
very beginning has been laid down, the most difficult part has
been done. Hold fast, now, Lichonin, and don't fall in spirit!
What you've done is splendid and lofty. Let me be even a victim of
this deed--it's all one! It's a shame, having done a good deed, to
expect rewards for it right away. I'm not a little circus dog, and
not a trained camel, and not the first pupil of a young ladies'
genteel institute. Only it was useless for me to let loose
yesterday before these bearers of enlightenment. It all turned out
to be silly, tactless, and, in any case, premature. But everything
in life is reparable. A person will sustain the heaviest, most
disgraceful things; but, time passes, and they are recalled as
trifles ..."

To his amazement, Liubka was not especially struck, and did not at
all become overjoyed when he triumphantly showed her the passport.
She was only glad to see Lichonin again. Perhaps, this primitive,
naive soul had already contrived to cleave to its protector? She
did throw herself upon his neck, but he stopped her, and quietly,
almost in her ear, asked her:

"Liubka, tell me ... don't be afraid to tell the truth, no matter
what it may be ... They told me just now, there in the house, that
you're sick with a certain disease ... you know, that which is
called the evil sickness. If you believe in me even to some
extent, tell me, my darling, tell me, is that so or not?"

She turned red, covered her face with her hands, fell down on the
divan and burst into tears.

"My dearie! Vassil Vassilich! Vasinka! Honest to God! Honest to
God, now, there never was anything of the kind! I always was so
careful! I was awfully afraid of this. I love you so! I would have
told you without fail." She caught his hands, pressed them to her
wet face and continued to assure him with the absurd and touching
sincerity of an unjustly accused child.

And he at once believed her in his soul.

"I believe you, my child," he said quietly, stroking her hair.
"Don't excite yourself, don't cry. Only let us not again give in
to our weakness. Well, it has happened--let it have happened; but
let us not repeat it any more.'

"As you wish," prattled the girl, kissing now his hands, now the
cloth of his coat. "If I displease you so, then, of course, let it
be as you wish."

However, this evening also the temptation was again repeated, and
kept on repeating until the falls from grace ceased to arouse a
burning shame in Lichonin, and turned into a habit, swallowing and
extinguishing remorse.





CHAPTER XVI.


Justice must be rendered to Lichonin; he did everything to create
for Liubka a quiet and secure existence. Since he knew that they
would have to leave their mansard anyway--this bird house, rearing
above the whole city--leave it not so much on account of its
inconvenience and lack of space as on account of the old woman
Alexandra, who with every day became more ferocious, captious and
scolding--he resolved to rent a little bit of a flat, consisting
of two rooms and a kitchen, on the Borschhagovka, at the edge of
the town. He came upon an inexpensive one, for nine roubles a
month, without fuel. True, Lichonin had to run very far from there
to his pupils, but he relied firmly upon his endurance and health,
and would often say:

"My legs are my own. I don't have to be sparing of them."

And, truly, he was a great master at walking. Once, for the sake
of a joke, having put a pedometer in his vest pocket, he towards
evening counted up twenty versts; which, taking into consideration
the unusual length of his legs, equalled some twenty-five
versts.[Footnote: A verst is equal to two-thirds of a mile.--
Trans] And he did have to run about quite a bit, because the fuss
about Liubka's passport and the acquisition of household
furnishings of a sort had eaten up all his accidental winnings at
cards. He did try to take up playing again, on a small scale at
first, but was soon convinced that his star at cards had now
entered upon a run of fatal ill luck.

By now, of course, the real character of his relations with Liubka
was a mystery to none of his comrades; but he still continued in
their presence to act out the comedy of friendly and brotherly
relations with the girl. For some reason he could not, or did not
want to, realize that it would have been far wiser and more
advantageous for him not to lie, not to be false, and not to
pretend. Or, perhaps, although he did know this, he still could
not change the established tone. As for the intimate relations, he
inevitably played a secondary, passive role. The initiative, in
the form of tenderness, caressing, always had to come from Liubka
(she had remained Liubka, after all, and Lichonin had somehow
entirely forgotten that he himself had read her real name--Irene--
in the passport).

She, who had so recently given her body up impassively--or, on the
contrary, with an imitation of burning passion--to tens of people
in a day, to hundreds in a month, had become attached to Lichonin
with all her feminine being, loving and jealous; had grown
attached to him with body, feeling, thoughts. The prince was funny
and entertaining to her, and the expansive Soloviev interestingly
amusing; toward the crushing authoritativeness of Simanovsky she
felt a supernatural terror; but Lichonin was for her at the same
time a sovereign, and a divinity; and, which is the most horrible
of all, her property and bodily joy.

It has long ago been observed, that a man who has lived his fill,
has been worn out, gnawed and chewed by the jaws of amatory
passions, will never again love with a strong and only love,
simultaneously self-denying, pure, and passionate. But for a woman
there are neither laws nor limitations in this respect. This
observation was especially confirmed in Liubka. She was ready to
crawl before Lichonin with delight, to serve him as a slave; but,
at the same time, desired that he belong to her more than a table,
than a little dog, than a night blouse. And he always proved
wanting, always failing before the onslaught of this sudden love,
which from a modest little stream had so rapidly turned into a
river and had over-flowed its banks. And not infrequently he
thought to himself, with bitterness and a sneer:

"Every evening I play the role of the beauteous Joseph; still, he
at least managed to tear himself away, leaving his underwear in
the hands of the ardent lady; but when will I at last get free of
my yoke?"

And a secret enmity for Liubka was already gnawing him. All the
more and more frequently various crafty plans of liberation came
into his head. And some of them were to such an extent dishonest,
that, after a few hours, or the next day, Lichonin squirmed
inwardly from shame, recalling them.

"I am falling, morally and mentally!" he would at times think with
horror. "It's not in vain that I read somewhere, or heard from
some one, that the connection of a cultured man with a woman of
little intellect will never elevate her to the level of the man,
but, on the contrary, will bow him down and sink him to the mental
and moral outlook of the woman."

And after two weeks she ceased to excite his imagination entirely.
He gave in, as to violence, to the long-continued caresses,
entreaties, and often even to pity.

Yet at the same time Liubka, who had rested and felt living, real
soil under her, began to improve in looks with unusual rapidity,
just as a flower bud, that but yesterday was almost dying,
suddenly unfolds after a plentiful and warm rain. The freckles ran
off her soft face, and the uncomprehending, troubled expression,
like that of a young jackdaw, had disappeared from the dark eyes,
and they had grown brighter and had begun to sparkle. The body
grew stronger and filled out; the lips grew red. But Lichonin,
seeing Liubka every day, did not notice this and did not believe
those compliments which were showered upon her by his friends.
"Fool jokes," he reflected, frowning. "The boys are spoofing."

As the lady of the house, Liubka proved to be less than mediocre.
True, she could cook fat stews, so thick that the spoon stood
upright in them; prepare enormous, unwieldy, formless cutlets; and
under the guidance of Lichonin familiarized herself pretty rapidly
with the great art of brewing tea (at seventy-five kopecks a
pound); but further than that she did not go, probably because for
each art and for each being there are extreme limitations of their
own, which cannot in any way be surmounted. But then, she loved to
wash floors very much; and carried out this occupation so often
and with such zeal, that dampness soon set in in the flat and
multipedes appeared.

Tempted once by a newspaper advertisement, Lichonin procured a
stocking knitting machine for her, on terms. The art, the mastery
of this instrument--promising, to judge by the advertisement,
three roubles of clear profit a day--proved to be so uncomplicated
that Lichonin, Soloviev, and Nijeradze easily mastered it in a few
hours; while Lichonin even contrived to knit a whole stocking of
uncommon durability, and of such dimensions that it would have
proven big even for the feet of Minin and Pozharsky, whose statues
are in Moscow, on Krasnaya Square. Only Liubka alone could not
master this trade. At every mistake or tangle she was forced to
turn to the co-operation of the men. But then, she learned pretty
rapidly to make artificial flowers and, despite the opinion of
Simanovsky, made them very exquisitely, and with great taste; so
that after a month the hat specialty stores began to buy her work.
And, what is most amazing, she had taken only two lessons in all
from a specialist, while the rest she learned through a self-
instructor, guiding herself only by the drawings supplemental to
it. She did not contrive to make more than a rouble's worth of
flowers in a week; but this money was her pride, and for the very
first half-rouble that she made she bought Lichonin a mouthpiece
for smoking.

Several years later Lichonin confessed to himself at soul, with
regret and with a quiet melancholy, that this period of time was
the most quiet, peaceful and comfortable one of all his life in
the university and as a lawyer. This unwieldy, clumsy, perhaps
even stupid Liubka, possessed some instinctive domesticity, some
imperceptible ability of creating a bright and easy quietude
around her. It was precisely she who attained the fact that
Lichonin's quarters very soon became a charming, quiet centre;
where all the comrades of Lichonin, who, as well as the majority
of the students of that time, were forced to sustain a bitter
struggle with the harsh conditions of life, felt somehow at ease,
as though in a family; and rested at soul after heavy
tribulations, need, and starvation. Lichonin recalled with
grateful sadness her friendly complaisance, her modest and
attentive silence, on those evenings around the samovar, when so
much had been spoken, argued and dreamt.

In learning, things went with great difficulty. All these self-
styled cultivators, collectively and separately, spoke of the fact
that the education of the human mind, and the upbringing of the
human soul must flow out of individual motives; but in reality
they stuffed Liubka with just that which seemed to them the most
necessary and indispensable, and tried to overcome together with
her those scientific obstacles, which, without any loss, might
have been left aside.

Thus, for example, Lichonin did not want, under any conditions, to
become reconciled, in teaching her arithmetic, to her queer,
barbarous, savage, or, more correctly, childish, primitive method
of counting. She counted exclusively in ones, twos, threes and
fives. Thus, for example, twelve to her was two times two threes;
nineteen--three fives and two twos; and, it must be said, that
through her system she with the rapidity of a counting board
operated almost up to a hundred. To go further she dared not; and
besides she had no practical need of this. In vain did Lichonin
try to transfer her to a digital system. Nothing came of this,
save that he flew into a rage, yelled at Liubka; while she would
look at him in silence, with astonished, widely open and guilty
eyes, the lashes of which stuck into long black arrows from tears.
Also, through a capricious turn of her mind, she began to master
addition and multiplication with comparative ease, but subtraction
and division were for her an impenetrable wall. But then, she
could, with amazing speed and wit, solve all possible jocose oral
head-breaking riddles, and even remembered very many of them
herself from the thousand year old usage of the village. Toward
geography she was perfectly dull. True, she could orientate
herself as to the four cardinal points on the street, in the
garden, and in the room; hundreds of times better than Lichonin--
the ancient peasant instinct in her asserted itself--but she
stubbornly denied the sphericity of the earth and did not
recognize the horizon; and when she was told that the terrestrial
globe moves in space, she only snorted from laughter. Geographical
maps to her were always an incomprehensible daubing in several
colours; but separate figures she memorized exactly and quickly.
"Where's Italy?" Lichonin would ask her. "Here it is, a boot,"
Liubka would say and triumphantly jabbed the Apennine Peninsula.
"Sweden and Norway?" "This dog, which is jumping off a roof." "The
Baltic Sea?" "A widow standing on her knees." "The Black Sea?" "A
shoe." "Spain?" "A fatty in a cap" ... &c. With history matters
went no better; Lichonin did not take into consideration the fact
that she, with her childlike soul thirsting for fiction, would
have easily become familiarized with historic events through
various funny and heroically touching anecdotes; but he,
accustomed to pulling through examinations and tutoring high-
school boys of the fourth or fifth grade, starved her on names and
dates. Besides that, he was very impatient, unrestrained,
irascible; grew fatigued soon, and a secret--usually concealed but
constantly growing--hatred for the girl who had so suddenly and
incongruously warped all his life, more and more frequently and
unjustly broke forth during the time of these lessons.

A far greater success as a pedagogue enjoyed Nijeradze. His guitar
and mandolin always hung in the dining room, secured to the nails
with ribbons. The guitar, with its soft, warm sounds, drew Liubka
more than the irritating, metallic bleating of the mandolin. When
Nijeradze would come to them as a guest (three or four times a
week, in the evening), she herself would take the guitar down from
the wall, painstakingly wipe it off with a handkerchief, and hand
it over to him. He, having fussed for some time with the tuning,
would clear his throat, put one leg over the other, negligently
throw himself against the back of the chair, and begin in a
throaty little tenor, a trifle hoarse, but pleasant and true:

    "The trea-cha-rous sa-ound av akissing
    Resahounds through the quiet night air;
    Tuh all fla-ming hearts it is pleasing,
    And given tuh each lovin' pair.

    For a single mohoment of mee-ting ..."

And at this he would pretend to swoon away from his own singing,
shut his eyes, toss his head in the passionate passages or during
the pauses, tearing his right hand away from the strings; would
suddenly turn to stone, and for a second would pierce Liubka's
eyes with his languorous, humid, sheepish eyes. He knew an endless
multitude of ballads, catches, and old-fashioned, jocose little
pieces. Most of all pleased Liubka the universally familiar
Armenian couplets about Karapet:

    "Karapet has a buffet,
     On the buffet's a confet,
     On the confet's a portret--
     That's the self-same Karapet."

[Footnote: Anglice, "confet" is a bon-bon; "portret," a portrait.
--Trans.]

Of these couplets (in the Caucasus they are called kinto-uri--the
song of the peddlers) the prince knew an infinite many, but the
absurd refrain was always one and the same:

    "Bravo, bravo, Katenka,
     Katerin Petrovna,
     Don't you kiss me on the cheek--a,
     Kiss the backs of my head."

These couplets Nijeradze always sang in a diminished voice,
preserving on his face an expression of serious astonishment about
Karapet; while Liubka laughed until it hurt, until tears came,
until she had nervous spasms. Once, carried away, she could not
restrain herself and began to chime in with him, and their singing
proved to be very harmonious. Little by little, when she had by
degrees completely ceased to be embarrassed before the prince,
they sang together more and more frequently. Liubka proved to have
a very soft and low contralto, even though thin, on which her past
life with its colds, drinking, and professional excesses had left
absolutely no traces. And mainly--which was already a curious gift
of God--she possessed an instinctive, inherent ability very
exactly, beautifully, and always originally, to carry on the
second voice. There came a time toward the end of their
acquaintance, when Liubka did not beg the prince, but the prince
Liubka, to sing some one of the beloved songs of the people, of
which she knew a multitude. And so, putting her elbow on the
table, and propping up her head with her palm, like a peasant
woman, she would start off to the cautious, painstaking, quiet
accompaniment:

    "Oh, the nights have grown tiresome to me, and
      wearisome;
    To be parted from my dearie, from my mate!
    Oh, haven't I myself, woman-like, done a foolish
      thing--
    Have stirred up the wrath of my own darling:
    When I did call him a bitter drunkard! ..."

"Bitter drunkard!" the prince would repeat the last words together
with her, and would forlornly toss his curly head, inclined to one
side; and they both tried to end the song so that the scarcely
seizable quivering of the guitar strings and the voice might by
degrees grow quiet, and that it might not be possible to note when
the sound ended and the silence came.

But then, in the matter of THE PANTHER'S SKIN, the work of the
famous Georgian poet Rustavelli, prince Nijeradze fell down
completely. The beauty of the poem, of course, consisted in the
way it sounded in the native tongue; but scarcely would he begin
to read in sing-song his throaty, sibilant, hawking phrases, when
Liubka would at first shake for a long time from irresistible
laughter; then, finally, burst into laughter, filling the whole
room with explosive, prolonged peals. Then Nijeradze in wrath
would slam shut the little tome of the adored writer, and swear at
Liubka, calling her a mule and a camel. However, they soon made
up.

There were times when fits of goatish, mischievous merriment would
come upon Nijeradze. He would pretend that he wanted to embrace
Liubka, would roll exaggeratedly passionate eyes at her, and would
utter with a theatrically languishing whisper:

"Me soul! The best rosa in the garden of Allah! Honey and milk are
upon thy lips, and thy breath is better than the aroma of kabob.
Give me to drink the bliss of Nirvanah from the goblet of thy
lips, O thou, my best Tifflissian she-goat!"

But she would laugh, get angry, strike his hands, and threaten to
complain to Lichonin.

"V-va!" the prince would spread out his hands. "What is Lichonin?
Lichonin is my friend, my brother, and bosom crony. But then, does
he know what loffe is? Is it possible that you northern people
understand loffe? It's we, Georgians, who are created for loffe.
Look, Liubka! I'll show you right away what loffe is!" He would
clench his fists, bend his body forward, and would start rolling
his eyes so ferociously, gnash his teeth and roar with a lion's
voice so, that a childish terror would encompass Liubka, despite
the fact that she knew this to be a joke, and she would dash off
running into another room.

It must be said, however, that for this lad, in general
unrestrained in the matter of light, chance romances, existed
special firm moral prohibitions, sucked in with the milk of his
mother Georgian; the sacred adates concerning the wife of a
friend. And then, probably he understood--and it must be said that
these oriental men, despite their seeming naiveness--and, perhaps,
even owing to it--possess, when they wish to, a fine psychic
intuition--he understood, that having made Liubka his mistress for
even one minute, he would be forever deprived of this charming,
quiet, domestic evening comfort, to which he had grown so used.
For he, who was on terms of thou-ing with almost the whole
university, nevertheless felt himself so lonely in a strange city
and in a country still strange to him!

These studies afforded the most pleasure of all to Soloviev. This
big, strong, and negligent man somehow involuntarily,
imperceptibly even to himself, began to submit to that hidden,
unseizable, exquisite witchery of femininity; which not
infrequently lurks under the coarsest covering, in the harshest,
most gnarled environment. The pupil dominated, the teacher obeyed.
Through the qualities of a primitive, but on the other hand a
fresh, deep, and original soul, Liubka was inclined not to obey
the method of another, but to seek out her own peculiar, strange
processes. Thus, for example, she--like many children, however,--
learned writing before reading. Not she herself, meek and yielding
by nature, but some peculiar quality of her mind, obstinately
refused in reading to harness a vowel alongside of a consonant, or
vice versa; in writing, however, she would manage this. For
penmanship along slanted rulings she, despite the general wont of
beginners, felt a great inclination; she wrote bending low over
the paper; blew on the paper from exertion, as though blowing off
imaginary dust; licked her lips and stuck out with the tongue,
from the inside, now one cheek, now the other. Soloviev did not
thwart her, and followed after, along those ways which her
instinct laid down. And it must be said, that during this month
and a half he had managed to become attached with all his huge,
broad, mighty soul to this chance, weak, transitory being. This
was the circumspect, droll, magnanimous, somewhat wondering love,
and the careful concern, of a kind elephant for a frail, helpless,
yellow-downed chick.

The reading was a delectation for both of them, and here again the
choice of works was directed by the taste of Liubka, while
Soloviev only followed its current and its sinuosities. Thus, for
example, Liubka did not overcome Don Quixote, tired, and, finally,
turning away from him, with pleasure heard Robinson Crusoe
through, and wept with especial copiousness over the scene of his
meeting with his relatives. She liked Dickens, and very easily
grasped his radiant humour; but the features of English manners
were foreign to her and incomprehensible. They also read Chekhov
more than once, and Liubka very freely, without difficulty,
penetrated the beauty of his design, his smile and his sadness.
Stories for children moved her, touched her to such a degree that
it was laughable and joyous to look at her. Once Soloviev read to
her Chekhov's story, The Fit, in which, as it is known, a student
for the first time finds himself in a brothel; and afterwards, on
the next day, writhes about, as in a fit, in the spasms of a keen
psychic suffering and the consciousness of common guilt. Soloviev
himself did not expect that tremendous impression which this
narrative would make upon her. She cried, swore, wrung her hands,
and exclaimed all the while:

"Lord! Where does he take all that stuff from, and so skillfully!
Why, it's every bit just the way it is with us!"

Once he brought with him a book entitled THE HISTORY OF MANON
LESCAUT AND THE CHEVALIER DE GRIEUX, the work of Abbe Prevost. It
must be said that Soloviev himself was reading this remarkable
book for the first time. But still, Liubka appraised it far more
deeply and finely. The absence of a plot, the naiveness of the
telling, the surplus of sentimentality, the olden fashion of the
style--all this taken together cooled Soloviev; whereas Liubka
received the joyous, sad, touching and flippant details of this
quaint immortal novel not only through her ears, but as though
with her eyes and with all her naively open heart.

"'Our intention of espousal was forgotten at St. Denis,'" Soloviev
was reading, bending his tousled, golden-haired head, illuminated
by the shade of the lamp, low over the book; "'we transgressed
against the laws of the church and, without thinking of it, became
espoused.'"

"What are they at? Of their own will, that is? Without a priest?
Just so?" asked Liubka in uneasiness, tearing herself away from
her artificial flowers.

"Of course. And what of it? Free love, and that's all there is to
it. Like you and Lichonin, now."

"Oh, me! That's an entirely different matter. You know yourself
where he took me from. But she's an innocent and genteel young
lady. That's a low-down thing for him to do. And, believe me,
Soloviev, he's sure to leave her later. Ah, the poor girl. Well,
well, well, read on."

But already after several pages all the sympathies and
commiserations of Liubka went over to the side of the deceived
chevalier.

"'However, the visits and departures by thefts of M. de B. threw
me into confusion. I also recollected the little purchases of
Manon, which exceeded our means. All this smacked of the
generosity of a new lover. "But no, no," I repeated, "it is
impossible that Manon should deceive me! She is aware, that I live
only for her, she is exceedingly well aware that I adore her."'"

"Ah, the little fool, the little fool!" exclaimed Liubka. "Why,
can't you see right off that she's being kept by this rich man.
Ah, trash that she is!"

And the further the novel unfolded, the more passionate and lively
an interest did Liubka take in it. She had nothing against Manon's
fleecing her subsequent patrons with the help of her lover and her
brother, while de Grieux occupied himself with sharping at the
club; but her every new betrayal brought Liubka into a rage, while
the sufferings of the gallant chevalier evoked her tears. Once she
asked:

"Soloviev, dearie, who was he--this author?"

"He was a certain French priest."

"He wasn't a Russian?"

"No, a Frenchman, I'm telling you. See, he's got everything so--
the towns are French and the people have French names."

"Then he was a priest, you say? Where did he know all this from,
then?"

"Well, he knew it, that's all. Because he was an ordinary man of
the world, a nobleman, and only became a monk afterwards. He had
seen a lot in his life. Then he again left the monks. But,
however, here's everything about him written in detail in front of
this book."

He read the biography of Abbe Prevost to her. Liubka heard it
through attentively, shaking her head with great significance;
asked over again about that which she did not understand in
certain places, and when he had finished she thoughtfully drawled
out:

"Then that's what he is! He's written it up awfully good. Only why
is she so low down? For he loves her so, with all his life; but
she's playing him false all the time."

"Well, Liubochka, what can you do? For she loved him too. Only
she's a vain hussy, and frivolous. All she wants is only rags, and
her own horses, and diamonds."

Liubka flared up and hit one fist against the other.

"I'd rub her into powder, the low-down creature? So that's called
her having loved, too! If you love a man, then all that comes from
him must be dear to you. He goes to prison, and you go with him to
prison. He's become a thief, well, you help him. He's a beggar,
but still you go with him. What is there out of the way, that
there's only a crust of black bread, so long as there's love?
She's low down, and she's low down, that's what! But I, in his
place, would leave her; or, instead of crying, give her such a
drubbing that she'd walk around in bruises for a whole month, the
varmint!"

The end of the novel she could not manage to hear to the finish
for a long time, and always broke out into sincere warm tears, so
that it was necessary to interrupt the reading; and the last
chapter they overcame only in four doses.

The calamities and misadventures of the lovers in prison, the
compulsory despatch of Manon to America and the self-denial of de
Grieux in voluntarily following her, so possessed the imagination
of Liubka and shook her soul, that she even forgot to make her
remarks. Listening to the story of the quiet, beautiful death of
Manon in the midst of the desert plain, she, without stirring,
with hands clasped on her breast, looked at the light; and the
tears ran and ran out of her staring eyes and fell, like a shower,
on the table. But when the Chevalier de Grieux, who had lain two
days near the corpse of his dear Manon, finally began to dig a
grave with the stump of his sword--Liubka burst into sobbing so
that Soloviev became scared and dashed after water. But even
having calmed down a little, she still sobbed for a long time with
her trembling, swollen lips and babbled:

"Ah! Their life was so miserable! What a bitter lot that was! And
is it possible that it's always like that, darling Soloviev; that
just as soon as a man and a woman fall in love with each other, in
just the way they did, then God is sure to punish them? Dearie,
but why is that? Why?"





CHAPTER XVII.


But if the Georgian and the kind-souled Soloviev served as a
palliating beginning against the sharp thorns of great worldly
wisdom, in the curious education of the mind and soul of Liubka;
and if Liubka forgave the pedantism of Lichonin for the sake of a
first sincere and limitless love for him, and forgave just as
willingly as she would have forgiven curses, beatings, or a heavy
crime--the lessons of Simanovsky, on the other hand, were a
downright torture and a constant, prolonged burden for her. For it
must be said that he, as though in spite, was far more accurate
and exact in his lessons than any pedagogue working out his weekly
stipulated tutorings.

With the incontrovertibility of his opinions, the assurance of his
tone and the didacticism of his presentation he took away the will
of poor Liubka and paralyzed her soul; in the same way that he
sometimes, during university gatherings or at mass meetings,
influenced the timid and bashful minds of newcomers. He was an
orator at meetings; he was a prominent member in the organization
of students' mess halls; he took part in the recording,
lithographing and publication of lectures; he was chosen the head
of the course; and, finally, took a very great interest in the
students' treasury. He was of that number of people who, after
they leave the student auditoriums, become the leaders of parties,
the unrestrained arbiters of pure and self-denying conscience;
serve out their political stage somewhere in Chukhlon, directing
the keen attention of all Russia to their heroically woeful
situation; and after that, beautifully leaning on their past, make
a career for themselves, thanks to a solid advocacy, a deputation,
or else a marriage joined with a goodly piece of black loam land
and provincial activity. Unnoticeably to themselves and altogether
unnoticeably, of course, to the casual glance, they cautiously
right themselves; or, more correctly, fade until they grow a belly
unto themselves, and acquire podagra and diseases of the liver.
Then they grumble at the whole world; say that they were not
understood, that their time was the time of sacred ideals. While
in the family they are despots and not infrequently give money out
at usury.

The path of the education of Liubka's mind and soul was plain to
him, as was plain and incontrovertible everything that he
conceived; he wanted at the start to interest Liubka in chemistry
and physics.

"The virginally feminine mind," he pondered, "will be astounded,
then I shall gain possession of her attention, and from trifles,
from hocus-pocus, I shall pass on to that which will lead her to
the centre of universal knowledge, where there is no superstition,
no prejudices; where there is only a broad field for the testing
of nature."

It must be said that he was inconsistent in his lessons. He
dragged in all that came to his hand for the astonishment of
Liubka. Once he brought along for her a large self-made serpent--a
long cardboard hose, filled with gunpowder, bent in the form of a
harmonica, and tied tightly across with a cord. He lit it, and the
serpent for a long time with crackling jumped over the dining room
and the bedroom, filling the place with smoke and stench. Liubka
was scarcely amazed and said that this was simply fireworks, that
she had already seen this, and that you couldn't astonish her with
that. She asked, however, permission to open the window. Then he
brought a large phial, tinfoil, rosin and a cat's tail, and in
this manner contrived a Leyden jar. The discharge, although weak,
was produced, however.

"Oh, the unclean one take you, Satan!" Liubka began to cry out,
having felt the dry fillip in her little finger.

Then, out of heated peroxide of manganese, mixed with sand, with
the help of a druggist's vial, the gutta-percha end of a syringe,
a basin filled with water, and a jam jar--oxygen was derived. The
red-hot cork, coal and phosphorus burnt in the jar so blindingly
that it pained the eyes. Liubka clapped her palms and squealed out
in delight:

"Mister Professor, more! Please, more, more! ..."

But when, having united the oxygen with the hydrogen brought in an
empty champagne bottle, and having wrapped up the bottle for
precaution in a towel, Simanovsky ordered Liubka to direct its
neck toward a burning candle, and when the explosion broke out, as
though four cannons had been fired off at once--an explosion
through which the plastering fell down from the ceiling--then
Liubka grew timorous, and, only getting to rights with difficulty,
pronounced with trembling lips, but with dignity: "You must excuse
me now, but since I have a flat of my own, and I'm not at all a
wench any longer, but a decent woman, I'd ask you therefore not to
misbehave in my place. I thought you, like a smart and educated
man, would do everything nice and genteel, but you busy yourself
with silly things. They can even put one in jail for that."

Subsequently, much, much later, she told how she had a student
friend, who made dynamite before her.

It must have been, after all, that Simanovsky, this enigmatic man,
so influential in his youthful society, where he had to deal with
theory for the most part, and so incoherent when a practical
experiment with a living soul had come into his hands--was just
simply stupid, but could skillfully conceal this sole sincere
quality of his.

Having suffered failure in applied sciences, he at once passed on
to metaphysics. Once he very self-assuredly, and in a tone such
that after it no refutation was possible, announced to Liubka that
there is no God, and that he would undertake to prove this during
five minutes. Whereupon Liubka jumped up from her place, and told
him firmly that she, even though a quondam prostitute, still
believed in God and would not allow Him to be offended in her
presence; and if he would continue such nonsense, then she would
complain to Vassil Vassilich.

"I will also tell him," she added in a weeping voice, "that you,
instead of teaching me, only rattle off all kinds of stuff and all
that sort of nastiness, while you yourself hold your hand on my
knees. And that's even not at all genteel." And for the first time
during all their acquaintanceship she, who had formerly been so
timorous and constrained, sharply moved away from her teacher.

However, having suffered a few failures, Simanovsky still
obstinately continued to act upon the mind and imagination of
Liubka. He tried to explain to her the theory of the origin of
species, beginning with an amoeba and ending with Napoleon. Liubka
listened to him attentively, and during this there was an
imploring expression in her eyes: "When will you stop at last?"
She yawned into a handkerchief and then guiltily explained:
"Excuse me, that's from my nerves." Marx also had no success
goods, supplementary value, the manufacturer and the worker, which
had become algebraic formulas, were for Liubka merely empty
sounds, vibrating the air; and she, very sincere at soul, always
jumped up with joy from her place, when hearing that, apparently,
the vegetable soup had boiled up, or the samovar was getting ready
to boil over.

It cannot be said that Simanovsky did not have success with women.
His aplomb and his weighty, decisive tone always acted upon simple
souls, especially upon fresh, naive, trusting souls. Out of
protracted ties he always got out very easily; either he was
dedicated to a tremendously responsible call, before which
domestic love relations were nothing; or he pretended to be a
superman, to whom all is permitted (O, thou, Nietszche, so long
ago and so disgracefully misconstrued for high-school boys!). The
passive, almost imperceptible, but firmly evasive resistance of
Liubka irritated and excited him. What particularly incensed him
was the fact that she, who had formerly been so accessible to all,
ready to yield her love in one day to several people in
succession, to each one for two roubles, was now all of a sudden
playing at some pure and disinterested inamoration!

"Nonsense," he thought. "This can't be. She's making believe, and,
probably, I don't strike the right tone with her."

And with every day he became more exacting, captious, and stern.
Hardly consciously, more probably through habit, he relied on his
usual influence, intimidating the thought and subduing the will,
which rarely betrayed him.

Once Liubka complained about him to Lichonin:

"He's too strict with me, now, Vassil Vassilievich; and I don't
understand anything he says, and I don't want to take lessons with
him any more."

Somehow or other, Lichonin lamely quieted her down; but still he
had an explanation with Simanovsky. The other answered him with
sang froid:

"Just as you wish, my dear fellow; if my method displeases you or
Liubka, then I'm even ready to resign. My problem consists only of
bringing in a genuine element of discipline into her education. If
she does not understand anything, then I compel her to learn it by
heart, aloud. With time this will cease. That is unavoidable.
Recall, Lichonin, how difficult the transition from arithmetic to
algebra was for us, when we were compelled to replace common
numerals with letters, and did not know why this was done. Or why
did they teach us grammar, instead of simply advising us to write
tales and verses?"

And on the very next day, bending down low under the hanging shade
of the lamp over Liubka's body, and sniffing all over her breast
and under her arm pits, he was saying to her:

"Draw a triangle... Well, yes, this way and this way. On top I
write 'Love.' Write simply the letter L, and below M and W. That
will be: the Love of Man and Woman."

With the air of an oracle, unshakable and austere, he spoke all
sorts of erotic balderdash and almost unexpectedly concluded:

"And so look, Liuba. The desire to love--it's the same as the
desire to eat, to drink, and to breathe the air." He would squeeze
her thigh hard, considerably above the knee; and she again,
becoming confused and not wishing to offend him, would try almost
imperceptibly to move her leg away gradually.

"Tell me, would it be offensive, now, for your sister, mother, or
for your husband, that you by chance had not dined at home, but
had gone into a restaurant or a cook-shop, and had there satisfied
your hunger? And so with love. No more, no less. A physiological
enjoyment. Perhaps more powerful, more keen, than all others, but
that's all. Thus, for example, now: I want you as a woman. While
you ..."

"Oh, drop it, Mister," Liubka cut him short with vexation. "Well,
what are you harping on one and the same thing for all the time?
Change your act. You've been told: no and no. Don't you think I
see what you're trying to get at? But only I'll never agree to
unfaithfulness, seeing as how Vasilli Vasillievich is my
benefactor, and I adore him with all my soul... And you're even
pretty disgusting to me with your nonsense."

Once he caused Liubka a great and scandalous hurt, and all because
of his theoretical first principles. As at the university they
were already for a long time talking about Lichonin's having saved
a girl from such and such a house; and that now he is taken up
with her moral regeneration; that rumour, naturally, also reached
the studying girls, who frequented the student circles. And so,
none other than Simanovsky once brought to Liubka two female
medicos, one historian, and one beginning poetess, who, by the
way, was already writing critical essays as well. He introduced
them in the most serious and fool-like manner.

"Here," he said, stretching out his hand, now in the direction of
the guests, now of Liubka, "here, comrades, get acquainted. You,
Liuba, will find in them real friends, who will help you on your
radiant path; while you--comrades, Liza, Nadya, Sasha and Rachel--
you will regard as elder sisters a being who has just struggled
out of that horrible darkness into which the social structure
places the modern woman."

He spoke not exactly so, perhaps; but in any case, approximately
in that manner. Liubka turned red, extended her hand, with all the
fingers clumsily folded together, to the young ladies in coloured
blouses and in leather belts; regaled them with tea and jam;
promptly helped them with lights for cigarettes; but, despite all
invitations, did not want to sit down for anything. She would say:
"Yes-ss, n-no, as you wish." And when one of the young ladies
dropped a handkerchief on the floor, she hurriedly made a dash to
pick it up.

One of the maidens, red, stout, and with a bass voice, whose face,
all in all, consisted of only a pair of red cheeks, out of which
mirth-provokingly peeped out a hint at an upturned nose, and with
a pair of little black eyes, like tiny raisins, sparkling out of
their depths, was inspecting Liubka from head to feet, as though
through an imaginary lorgnette; directing over her a glance which
said nothing, but was contemptuous. "Why, I haven't been getting
anybody away from her," thought Liubka guiltily. But another was
so tactless, that she--perhaps for the first time for her, but the
hundredth for Liubka--began a conversation about: how had she
happened upon the path of prostitution? This was a bustling young
lady, pale, very pretty, ethereal; all in little light curls, with
the air of a spoiled kitten and even a little pink cat's bow on
her neck.

"But tell me, who was this scoundrel, now ... who was the first to
... well, you understand? ..."

In the mind of Liubka quickly flashed the images of her former
mates, Jennka and Tamara, so proud, so brave and resourceful--oh,
far brainier than these maidens--and she, almost unexpectedly for
herself, suddenly said sharply:

'There was a lot of them. I've already forgotten. Kolka, Mitka,
Volodka, Serejka, Jorjik, Troshka, Petka, and also Kuzka and Guska
with a party. But why are you interested?"

"Why... no... that is, I ask as a person who fully sympathizes
with you."

"But have you a lover?"

"Pardon me, I don't understand what you're saying. People, it's
time we were going."

"That is, what don't you understand? Have you ever slept with a
man?"

"Comrade Simanovsky, I had not presupposed that you would bring us
to such a person. Thank you. It was exceedingly charming of you!"

It was difficult for Liubka to surmount the first step. She was of
those natures which endure long, but tear loose rapidly; and she,
usually so timorous, was unrecognizable at this moment.

"But I know!" she was screaming in wrath. "I know, that you're the
very same as I! But you have a papa, a mamma; you're provided for,
and if you have to, then you'll even commit abortion--many do so.
But if you were in my place, when there's nothing to stuff your
mouth with, and a girlie doesn't understand anything yet, because
she can't read or write; while all around the men are shoving like
he-dogs--then you'd be in a sporting house too. It's a shame to put
on airs before a poor girl--that's what!"

Simanovsky, who had gotten into trouble, said a few general
consolatory words in a judicious bass, such as the noble fathers
used in olden comedies, and led his ladies off.

But he was fated to play one more very shameful, distressing, and
final role in the free life of Liubka. She had already complained
to Lichonin for a long time that the presence of Simanovsky was
oppressive to her; but Lichonin paid no attention to womanish
trifles: the vacuous, fictitious, wordy hypnosis of this man of
commands was strong within him. There are influences, to get rid
of which is difficult, almost impossible. On the other hand, he
was already for a long time feeling the burden of co-habitation
with Liubka. Frequently he thought to himself: "She is spoiling my
life; I am growing common, foolish; I have become dissolved in
fool benevolence; it will end up in my marrying her, entering the
excise or the assay office, or getting in among pedagogues; I'll
be taking bribes, will gossip, and become an abominable provincial
morel. And where are my dreams of the power of thought, the beauty
of life, of love and deeds for all humanity?" he would say, at
times even aloud, and pull his hair. And for that reason, instead
of attentively going into Liubka's complaints, he would lose his
temper, yell, stamp his feet, and the patient, meek Liubka would
grow quiet and retire into the kitchen, to have a good cry there.

Now more and more frequently, after family quarrels, in the
minutes of reconciliation he would say to Liubka:

"My dear Liuba, you and I do not suit each other, comprehend that.
Look: here are a hundred roubles for you, ride home. Your
relatives will receive you as their own. Live there a while, look
around you. I will come for you after half a year; you'll have
become rested, and, of course, all that's filthy, nasty, that has
been grafted upon you by the city, will go away, will die off. And
you'll begin a new life independently, without any assistance,
alone and proud!"

But then, can anything be done with a woman who has come to love
for the first, and, of course, as it seems to her, for the last
time? Can she be convinced of the necessity for parting? Does
logic exist for her?

Always reverent before the firmness of the words and decisions of
Simanovsky, Lichonin, however, surmised and by instinct understood
his real relation to Liubka; and in his desire to free himself, to
shake off a chance load beyond his strength, he would catch
himself in a nasty little thought: "She pleases Simanovsky; and as
for her, isn't it all the same if it's he or I or a third? Guess
I'll make a clean breast of it, explain things to him and yield
Liubka up to him like a comrade. But then, the fool won't go. Will
raise a rumpus."

"Or just to come upon the two of them together, somehow," he would
ponder further, "in some decisive pose... to raise a noise, make a
row... A noble gesture... a little money and... a getaway."

He now frequently, for several days, would not return home; and
afterwards, having come, would undergo torturesome hours of
feminine interrogations, scenes, tears, even hysterical fits.
Liubka would at times watch him in secret, when he went out of the
house; would stop opposite the entrance that he went into, and for
hours would await his return in order to reproach him and to cry
in the street. Not being able to read, she intercepted his letters
and, not daring to turn to the aid of the prince or Soloviev,
would save them up in her little cupboard together with sugar,
tea, lemon and all sorts of other trash. She had even reached the
stage when, in minutes of anger, she threatened him with sulphuric
acid.

"May the devil take her," Lichonin would ponder during the minutes
of his crafty plans. "It's all one, let there even be nothing
between them. But I'll take and make a fearful scene for him. and
her."

And he would declaim to himself:

"Ah, so! ... I have warmed you in my bosom, and what do I see now?
You are paying me with black ingratitude. ... And you, my best
comrade, you have attempted my sole happiness! ... O, no, no,
remain together; I go hence with tears in my eyes. I see, that I
am one too many! I do not wish to oppose your love, etc., etc."

And precisely these dreams, these hidden plans, such momentary,
chance, and, at bottom, vile ones--of those to which people later
do not confess to themselves--were suddenly fulfilled. It was the
turn of Soloviev's lesson. To his great happiness, Liubka had at
last read through almost without faltering: "A good plough has
Mikhey, and a good one has Sisoi as well... a swallow... a swing
... the children love God..." And as a reward for this Soloviev
read aloud to her Of the Merchant Kalashnikov and of Kiribeievich,
Life-guardsman of Czar Ivan the Fourth. Liubka from delight
bounced in her armchair, clapped her hands. The beauty of this
monumental, heroic work had her in its grasp. But she did not have
a chance to express her impressions in full. Soloviev was hurrying
to a business appointment. And immediately, coming to meet
Soloviev, having barely exchanged greetings with him in the
doorway, came Simanovsky. Liubka's face sadly lengthened and her
lips pouted. For this pedantic teacher and coarse male had become
very repugnant to her of late.

This time he began a lecture on the theme that for man there exist
no laws, no rights, no duties, no honour, no vileness; and that
man is a quantity self-sufficient, independent of anyone and
anything.

"It's possible to be a God, possible to be an intestinal worm, a
tape worm--it's all the same."

He already wanted to pass on to the theory of amatory emotions;
but, it is to be regretted, he hurried a trifle from impatience:
he embraced Liubka, drew her to him and began to squeeze her
roughly. "She'll become intoxicated from caressing. She'll give
in!" thought the calculating Simanovsky. He sought to touch her
mouth with his lips for a kiss, but she screamed and snorted spit
at him. All the assumed delicacy had left her.

"Get out, you mangy devil, fool, swine, dirt! I'll smash your
snout for you! ..."

All the lexicon of the establishment had come back to her; but
Simanovsky, having lost his pince-nez, his face distorted, was
looking at her with blurred eyes and jabbering whatever came into
his head:

"My dear ... It's all the same ... a second of enjoyment! ... You
and I will blend in enjoyment! ... No one will find out! ... Be
mine! ..."

It was just at this very minute that Lichonin walked into the
room.

Of course, at soul he did not admit to himself that this minute he
would commit a vileness; but only somehow from the side, at a
distance, reflected that his face was pale, and that his immediate
words would be tragic and of great significance.

"Yes!" he said dully, like an actor in the fourth act of a drama;
and, letting his hands drop impotently, began to shake his chin,
which had fallen upon his breast. "I expected everything, only not
this. You I excuse, Liuba--you are a cave being; but you,
Simanovsky ... I esteemed you ... however, I still esteem you a
decent man. But I know, that passion is at times stronger than the
arguments of reason. Right here are fifty roubles--I am leaving
them for Liuba; you, of course, will return them to me later, I
have no doubt of that. Arrange her destiny ... You are a wise,
kind, honest man, while I am ... ("A skunk!" somebody's distinct
voice flashed through his head.) I am going away, because I will
not be able to bear this torture any more. Be happy."

He snatched out of his pocket and with effect threw his wallet on
the table; then seized his hair and ran out of the room.

Still, this was the best way out for him. And the scene had been
played out precisely as he had dreamt of it.





PART III.





CHAPTER I.


All this Liubka told at length and disjointedly, sobbing on
Jennka's shoulder. Of course, in her personal elucidation this
tragi-comical history proved altogether unlike what it had been in
reality.

Lichonin, according to her words, had taken her to him only to
entice, to tempt her; to have as much use as possible out of her
foolishness, and then to abandon her. But she, the fool, had in
truth fallen in love--with him, and since she was very jealous
about him and all these tousled girls in leather belts, he had
done a low-down thing: had sent up his comrade on purpose, had
framed it up with him, and the other had begun to hug Liubka, and
Vasska came in, saw it, and kicked up a great row, and chased
Liubka out into the street.

Of course, in her version there were two almost equal parts of
truth and untruth; but so, at least, all this had appeared to her.

She also told with great details how, having found herself without
masculine support or without anybody's powerful extraneous
influence, she had hired a room In a rather bad little hotel, on a
retired street; how even from the first day the boots, a tough
bird, a hard-boiled egg, had attempted to trade in her, without
even having and Vasska came in, saw it, and kicked up a great row,
the hotel to a private room, but even there had been overtaken by
an experienced old woman go-between, with whose like the houses
inhabited by poverty swarm.

Therefore, even with quiet living, there was in the face, in the
conversation, and in the entire manner of Liubka something
peculiar, specific to the casual eye; perhaps even entirely
imperceptible, but for the business scent as plain and as
irrefutable as the day.

But the chance, brief, sincere love had given her the strength to
oppose the inevitability of a second fall. In her heroic courage
she even went so far as putting in a few notices in the
newspapers, that she was seeking a place with "all found."
However, she had no recommendation of any sort. In addition, she
had to do exclusively with women when it came to the hiring; and
they also, with some sort of an inner, infallible instinct,
surmised in her their ancient foe--the seductress of their
husbands, brothers, fathers, and sons.

There was neither sense nor use in. going home. Her native
Vassilkovsky district is distant only fifteen versts from the
state capital; and the rumour that she had entered that sort of an
establishment had long since penetrated, by means of her fellow-
villagers, into the village. This was written of in letters, and
transmitted verbally, by those village neighbours who had seen her
both on the street and at Anna Markovna's place itself--porters
and bell-hops of hotels, waiters at small restaurants, cabbies,
small contractors. She knew what odour this fame would give off if
she were to return to her native haunts. It were better to hang
one's self than to endure this.

She was as uneconomical and impractical in money matters as a
five-year-old child, and in a short while was left without a
kopeck; while to go back to the brothel was fearful and shameful.
But the temptations of street prostitution turned up of
themselves, and at every step begged to be seized. In the
evenings, on the main street, old hardened street prostitutes at
once unerringly guessed her former profession. Ever and anon one
of them, having come alongside of her, would begin in a sweet,
ingratiating voice:

"How is it, young lady, that you're walking alone? Let's be mates.
Let's walk together. That's always more convenient. Whenever men
want to pass the time pleasantly with girls, they always love to
start a party of four."

And right here the experienced, tried recruiting agent, at first
casually, but after that warmly, with all her heart, would begin
to praise up all the conveniences of living at your own
landlady's--the tasty food, full freedom of going out, the
possibility of always concealing from the landlady of your rooms
the surplus over the agreed pay. Here also much of the malicious
and the offensive was said, by the way, against the women of the
private houses, who were called "government hides," "government
stuff," "genteel maidens" and "institutes." Liubka knew the value
of these sneers, because the dwellers in brothels also bear
themselves with the greatest contempt toward street prostitutes,
calling them "bimmies" and "venereals."

To be sure, in the very end that happened which had to happen.
Seeing in perspective a whole series of hungry days, and in the
very depth of them the dark horror of an unknown future, Liubka
consented to a very civil invitation of some respectable little
old man; important, grayish, well-dressed and correct. For this
ignominy Liubka received a rouble, but did not dare to protest:
the previous life in the house had entirely eaten away her
personal initiative, mobility and energy. Later, several times
running, he even did not pay her anything at all.

One young man, easy of manner and handsome, in a cap with a
flattened brim, put on at a brave slant over one ear, in a silk
blouse, girdled by a cord with tassels, also led her with him into
a hotel, asked for wine and a snack; for a long time lied to
Liubka about his being an earl's son on the wrong side of the
blanket, and that he was the first billiardist in the whole city;
that all the wenches like him and that he would make a swell Jane
out of Liubka as well. Then he went out of the room for just one
minute, as though on business of his own, and vanished forever.
The stern, cross-eyed porter beat her with contentment, long, in
silence, with a business-like air; breathing hard and covering up
Liubka's mouth with his hand. But in the end, having become
convinced, probably, that the fault was not hers, but the guest's,
he took her purse, in which was a rouble with some small change,
away from her; and took as security her rather cheap little hat
and small outer jacket.

Another man of forty-five years, not at all badly dressed, having
tortured the girl for some two hours, paid for the room and gave
her 80 kopecks; but when she started to complain, he with a
ferocious face put an enormous red-haired fist up to her very
nose, the first thing, and said decisively:

"You just snivel a bit more to me... I'll snivel you... I'll yell
for the police, now, and say that you robbed me when I was
sleeping. Want me to? Is it long since you've been in a station
house?"

And went away.

And of such cases there were many.

On that day, when her landlords--a boatman and his wife--had
refused to let her have a room and just simply threw her things
out into the yard; and when she had wandered the night through on
the streets, without sleep, under the rain, hiding from the
policemen--only then, with aversion and shame, did she resolve to
turn to Lichonin's aid. But Lichonin was no longer in town
pusillanimously, he had gone away the very same day when the
unjustly wronged and disgraced Liubka had run away from the flat.
And it was in the morning that there came into her head the
desperate thought of returning into the brothel and begging
forgiveness there.

"Jennechka, you're so clever, so brave, so kind; beg Emma
Edwardovna for me--the little housekeeper will listen to you," she
implored Jennka and kissed her bare shoulders and wetted them with
tears.

"She won't listen to anybody," gloomily answered Jennka. "And you
did have to tie up with a fool and a low-down fellow like that."

"Jennechka, but you yourself advised me to," timidly retorted
Liubka.

"I advised you? ... I didn't advise you anything. What are you
lying on me for, just as though I was dead... Well, all right
then--let's go."

Emma Edwardovna had already known for a long while about the
return of Liubka; and had even seen her at that moment when she
had passed through the yard of the house, looking all around her.
At soul she was not at all against taking Liubka back. It must be
said, that she had even let her go only because she had been
tempted by the money, one-half of which she had appropriated for
herself. And in addition to that, she had reckoned that with the
present seasonal influx of new prostitutes she would have a large
choice; in which, however, she had made a mistake, because the
season had terminated abruptly. But in any case, she had firmly
resolved to take Liubka. Only it was necessary, for the
preservation and rounding out of prestige, to give her a scare
befittingly.

"Wha-at?" she began to yell at Liubka, scarcely having heard her
out, babbling in confusion. "You want to be taken on again? ...
You wallowed the devil knows with whom in the streets, under the
fences; and now, you scum, you're again shoving your way into a
respectable, decent establishment! ... Pfui, you Russian swine!
Out! ..."

Liubka was catching her hands, aiming to kiss them, but the
housekeeper roughly snatched them away. Then, suddenly paling,
with a distorted face, biting her trembling, twisted lower lip,
Emma calculatingly and with good aim struck Liubka on her cheek,
with all her might; from which the other went down on her knees,
but got up right away, gasping for breath and stammering from the
sobs.

"Darlingest, don't beat me... Oh my dear, don't beat me..."

And again fell down, this time flat upon the floor.

And this systematic, malignant slaughter, in cold blood, continued
for some two minutes. Jennka, who had at first been looking on
with her customary malicious, disdainful air, suddenly could not
stand it; she began to squeal savagely, threw herself upon the
housekeeper, clutched her by the hair, tore off her chignon and
began to vociferate in a real hysterical fit:

"Fool! ... Murderer! ... Low-down go-between! ... Thief! ..."

All the three women vociferated together, and at once enraged
wails resounded through all the corridors and rooms of the
establishment. This was that general fit of grand hysterics, which
takes possession of those confined in prisons, or that elemental
insanity (raptus), which envelops unexpectedly and epidemically an
entire lunatic asylum, from which even experienced psychiatrists
grow pale.

Only after the lapse of an hour was order restored by Simeon and
two comrades by profession who had come to his aid. All the
thirteen girls got it hot; but Jennka, who had gone into a real
frenzy, more than the others. The beaten-up Liubka kept on
crawling before the housekeeper until she was taken back. She knew
that Jennka's outbreak would sooner or later be reflected upon her
in a cruel repayment. Jennka sat on her bed until the very night,
her legs crossed Turkish fashion; refused dinner, and chased out
all her mates who went in to her. Her eye was bruised, and she
assiduously applied a five-kopeck copper to it. From underneath
the torn shirt a long, transversal scratch reddened on the neck,
just like a mark from a rope. That was where Simeon had torn off
her skin in the struggle. She sat thus, alone, with eyes that
glowed in the dark like a wild beast's, with distended nostrils,
with spasmodically moving cheek-bones, and whispered wrathfully:

"Just you wait... Watch out, you damned things--I'll show you...
You'll see yet... Ooh-ooh, you man-eaters..."

But when the lights had been lit, and the junior housekeeper,
Zociya, knocked on her door with the words: "Miss, get dressed!
... Into the drawing room!" she rapidly washed herself, dressed,
put some powder on the bruise, smeared the scratch over with CREME
DE SIMON and pink powder, and went out into the drawing room,
pitiful but proud; beaten-up, but her eyes flaming with an
unbearable wrathfulness and a beauty not human.

Many people, who have happened to see suicides a few hours before
their horrible death, say that in their visages in those fateful
hours before death they have noticed some enigmatic, mysterious,
incomprehensible allurement. And all who saw Jennka on this night,
and on the next day for a few hours, for long, intently and in
wonder, kept their gaze upon her.

And strangest of all (this was one of the sombre wiles of fate)
was the fact that the indirect culprit of her death, the last
grain of sand which draws down the pan of the scales, appeared
none other than the dear, most kind, military cadet Kolya
Gladishev.





CHAPTER II.


Kolya Gladishev was a fine, merry, bashful young lad, with a large
head; pink-cheeked, with a funny little white, bent line, as
though from milk, upon his upper lip, under the light down of the
moustache, sprouting through for the first time; with gray, naive
eyes, placed far apart; and so closely cropped, that from
underneath his flaxen little bristles the skin glistened through,
just as with a thoroughbred Yorkshire suckling pig. It was
precisely he with whom Jennka during the past winter had played
either at maternal relations, or at dolls; and thrust upon him a
little apple or a couple of bon-bons on his way, when he would be
going away from the house of ill repute, squirming from shame.

This time, when he came, there could at once be felt in him, after
long living in camps, that rapid change in age, which so often
imperceptibly and rapidly transforms a boy into a youth. He had
already finished the cadet academy and with pride counted himself
a junker; although he still walked around in a cadet's uniform,
with aversion. He had grown taller, had become better formed and
more adroit; the camp life had done him good. He spoke in a bass,
and during these months to his most great pride the nipples of his
breast had hardened; the most important--he already knew about
this--and undeniable sign of virile maturity. Now, in the
meanwhile, until the eyes-front severities of a military school,
he had a period of alluring freedom. Already he was permitted to
smoke at home, in the presence of grown-ups; and even his father
had himself presented him with a leather cigar case with his
monogram, and also, in the elevation of family joy, had assigned
him fifteen roubles monthly salary.

And it was just here--at Anna Markovna's--that he had come to know
woman for the first time--the very same Jennka.

The fall of innocent souls in houses of ill-fame, or with street
solitaries, is fulfilled far more frequently than it is usually
thought. When not green youths only, but even honourable men of
fifty, almost grandfathers, are interrogated about this ticklish
matter, they will tell you, sure enough, the ancient stencilled
lie of how they had been seduced by a chambermaid or a governess.
But this is one of those lingering, queer lies, going back into
the depth of past decades, which are almost never noticed by a
single one of the professional observers, and in any case are not
described by any one.

If each one of us will try, to put it pompously, to put his hand
on his heart, then every one will catch himself in the fact, that
having once in childhood said some sort of boastful or touching
fiction, which had success, and having repeated it for that reason
two and five and ten times more--he afterwards cannot get rid of
it all his life, and repeats with entire firmness by now a history
which had never been; a firmness such that in the very end he
believes the story. With time Kolya also narrated to his comrades
how his aunt once removed, a young woman of the world had seduced
him. It must be said, however, that the intimate proximity to this
lady--a large, dark-eyed, white faced, sweetly fragrant southern
woman--did really exist; but existed only in Kolya's imagination,
in those sad, tragic and timid minutes of solitary sexual
enjoyments, through which pass if not a hundred percent of all
men, then ninety-nine, in any case.

Having experienced mechanical sexual excitements very early,
approximately since nine or nine years and a half, Kolya did not
at all have the least understanding of the significance of that
end of being in love or of courtship, which is so horrible on the
face of it, if it be looked at impartially, or if it be explained
scientifically. Unfortunately, there was at that time near him not
a one of the present progressive and learned ladies who, having
turned away the neck of the classic stork, and torn up by the
roots the cabbage underneath which children are found, recommend
that the great mystery of love and generation be explained to
children in lectures, through comparisons and assimilations,
mercilessly and in a well-nigh graphic manner.

It must be said, that at that remote time of which we are
speaking, the private institutions--male PENSIONS and institutes,
as well as academies for cadets--represented some sort of hot-
house nurseries. The care of the mind and morality they tried to
entrust as much as possible to educators who were bureaucrats-
formalists; and in addition impatient, captious, capricious in
their sympathies and hysterical, just like old maid lady teachers.
Now it is otherwise. But at that time the boys were left to
themselves. Barely snatched away, speaking figuratively, from the
maternal breast; from the care of devoted nurses; from morning and
evening caresses, quiet and sweet; even though they were ashamed
of every manifestation of tenderness as "womanishness," they were
still irresistibly and sweetly drawn to kisses, contacts,
conversations whispered in the ear.

Of course, attentive, solicitous treatment, bathing, exercises in
the open air--precisely not gymnastics, but voluntary exercises,
each to his own taste--could have always put off the coming of
this climacteric period or soften and make it understandable.

I repeat--then there was nothing of this.

The longing for family endearment, the endearment of mother,
sister, nurse, so roughly and unexpectedly cut short, turned into
deformed forms of courting (every whit like the "crushes" in a
female institute) of good-looking boys, of "fairies"; they loved
to whisper in corners and, walking arm in arm, or embracing in
dark corridors, to tell in each other's ears improbable histories
of adventures with women. This was partly both childhood's need of
the fairy-tale element and partly awakening sensuality as well.
Not infrequently some fifteen-year-old chubby, for whom it was
just the proper time to be playing at popular tennis or to be
greedily putting away buckwheat porridge with milk, would be
telling, having read up, of course, on certain cheap novels, of
how every Saturday, now, when it is leave, he goes to a certain,
handsome widow millionairess; and of how she is passionately
enamored of him; and how near their couch always stand fruits and
precious wine; and how furiously and passionately she makes love
to him.

Here, by the bye, came along the inevitable run of prolonged
reading, like hard drinking, which, of course, every boy and girl
has undergone. No matter how strict in this respect the class
surveillance may be, the striplings did read, are reading, and
will read just that which is not permitted them. Here is a special
passion, CHIC, the allurement of the forbidden. Already in the
third class went from hand to hand the manuscript transcripts of
Barkov; of a spurious Pushkin; the youthful sins of Lermontov and
others: "THE FIRST NIGHT," "THE CHERRY," "LUCAS," "THE FESTIVAL AT
PETERHOF," "THE SHE UHLAN, GRIEF THROUGH WISDOM," "THE PRIEST,"
&c.

But no matter how strange, fictitious or paradoxical this may
seem, still, even these compositions, and drawings, and obscene
photographic cards, did not arouse a delightful curiosity. They
were looked upon as a prank, a lark, and the allurement of
contraband risk. In the cadets' library were chaste excerpts from
Pushkin and Lermontov; all of Ostrovsky, who only made you laugh;
and almost all of Turgenev, who was the very one that played a
chief and cruel role in Kolya's life. As it is known, love with
the late great Turgenev is always surrounded with a tantalizing
veil; some sort of crepe, unseizable, forbidden, but tempting: his
maidens have forebodings of love and are agitated at its approach,
and are ashamed beyond all measure, and tremble, and turn red.
Married women or widows travel this tortuous path somewhat
differently: they struggle for a long time with their duty, or
with respectability, or with the opinion of the world; and, in the
end--oh!--fall with tears; or--oh!--begin to brave it; or, which
is still more frequent, the implacable fate cuts short her or his
life at the most--oh!--necessary moment, when it only lacks a
light puff of wind for the ripened fruit to fall. And yet all of
his personages still thirst after this shameful love; weep
radiantly and laugh joyously from it; and it shuts out all the
world for them. But since boys think entirely differently than we
grown-ups, and since everything that is forbidden, everything not
said fully, or said in secret, has in their eyes an enormous, not
only twofold but threefold interest--it is therefore natural that
out of reading they drew the hazy thought that the grown-ups were
concealing something from them.

And it must be mentioned--had not Kolya (like the majority of
those of his age) seen the chambermaid Phrociya--so rosy-cheeked,
always merry, with legs of the hardness of steel (at times he, in
the heat of playing, had slapped her on the back), had he not seen
her once, when Kolya had by accident walked quickly into papa's
cabinet, scurry out of there with all her might, covering her face
with her apron; and had he not seen that during this time papa's
face was red, with a dark blue, seemingly lengthened nose? And
Kolya had reflected: "Papa looks like a turkey." Had not Kolya--
partly through the fondness for pranks and the mischievousness
natural to all boys, partly through tedium--accidentally
discovered in an unlocked drawer of papa's writing table an
enormous collection of cards, whereon was represented just that
which shop clerks call the crowning of love, and worldly
nincompoops--the unearthly passion?

And had he not seen, that every time before the visit of the
sweet-scented and bestarched Paul Edwardovich, some ninny with
some embassy, with whom mamma, in imitation of the fashionable St.
Petersburg promenades to the Strelka, used to ride to the Dnieper
to contemplate the sun setting on the other side of the river, in
the Chernigovskaya district--had he not seen how mamma's bosom
went, and how her cheeks glowed under the powder; had he not
detected at these moments many new and strange things; had he not
heard her voice, an altogether unknown voice, like an actor's;
nervously breaking off, mercilessly malicious to those of the
family and the servants, and suddenly soft, like velvet, like a
green meadow under the sun, when Paul Edwardovich would arrive?
Ah, if we people who have been made wise by experience would know
how much, and even too much, the urchins and little girls
surrounding us know, of whom we usually say:

"Well, why mind Volodya (or Petie, or Katie)? ... Why, they are
little. They don't understand anything! ..."

So also not in vain passed for Gladishev the history of his elder
brother, who had just come out of a military school into one of
the conspicuous grenadier regiments; and, being on leave until
such time when it would be possible for him to spread his wings,
lived in two separate rooms with his family. At that time Niusha,
a chambermaid, was in their service; at times they jestingly
called her signorita Anita--a seductive black-haired girl, who, if
she were to change costumes, could in appearance be taken for a
dramatic actress, or a princess of the royal blood, or a political
worker. Kolya's mother manifestly countenanced the fact that
Kolya's brother, half in jest, half in earnest, was allured by
this girl. Of course, she had only the sole, holy, maternal
calculation: If it were destined, after all, for her Borenka to
fall, then let him give his purity, his innocence, his first
physical inclination, not to a prostitute, not to a street-walker,
not to a seeker of adventures, but to a pure girl. Of course, only
a disinterested, unreasoning, truly-maternal feeling guided her.
Kolya at that time was living through the epoch of llanos,
pampases, Apaches, track-finders, and a chief by the name of
"Black Panther"; and, of course, attentively kept track of the
romance of his brother, and made his own syllogisms; at times only
too correct, at times fantastic. After six months, from behind a
door, he was the witness--or more correctly the auditor--of an
outrageous scene. The wife of the general, always so respectable
and restrained, was yelling in her boudoir at signorita Anita, and
cursing in the words of a cab-driver: the signorita was in the
fifth month of pregnancy. If she had not cried, then, probably,
they would simply have given her smart-money, and she would have
gone away in peace; but she was in love with the young master, did
not demand anything, and for that reason they drove her away with
the aid of the police.

In the fifth or sixth class many of Kolya's comrades had already
tasted of the tree of knowledge of evil. At that time it was
considered in their corpus an especial, boastful masculine chic to
call all secret things by their own names. Arkasha Shkar
contracted a disease, not dangerous, but still venereal; and he
became for three whole months the object of worship of all the
seniors--at that time there were no squads yet. And many of them
visited brothels; and, really, about their sprees they spoke far
more handsomely and broadly than the hussars of the time of Denis
Davidov.[Footnote: A Russian ban vivant, wit and poet (1781-1839),
the overwhelming majority of whose lyrics deals with military
exploits and debauches.--Trans.] These debauches were esteemed by
them the last word in valour and maturity.

And so it happened once, that they did not exactly persuade
Gladishev to go to Anna Markovna, but rather he himself had begged
to go, so weakly had he resisted temptation. This evening he
always recalled with horror, with aversion; and dimly, just like
some heavy dream. With difficulty he recalled, how in the cab, to
get up courage, he had drunk rum, revoltingly smelling of real
bedbugs; how qualmish this beastly drink made him feel; how he had
walked into the big hall, where the lights of the lustres and the
candelabra on the walls were turning round in fiery wheels; where
the women moved as fantastic pink, blue, violet splotches, and the
whiteness of their necks, bosoms and arms flashed with a blinding,
spicy, victorious splendour. Some one of the comrades whispered
something in the ear of one of these fantastic figures. She ran up
to Kolya and said:

"Listen, you good-looking little cadet, your comrades are saying,
now, that you're still innocent ... Let's go ... I'll teach you
everything."

The phrase was said in a kindly manner; but this phrase the walls
of Anna Markovna's establishment had already heard several
thousand times. Further, that took place which it was so difficult
and painful to recall, that in the middle of his recollections
Kolya grew tired, and with an effort of the will turned back the
imagination to something else. He only remembered dimly the
revolving and spreading circles from the light of the lamp;
persistent kisses; disconcerting contacts--then a sudden sharp
pain, from which one wanted both to die in enjoyment and to cry
out in terror; and then with wonder he saw his pale shaking hands,
which could not, somehow, button his clothes.

Of course, all men have experienced this primordial tristia post
coitus; but this great moral pain, very serious in its
significance and depth, passes very rapidly, remaining, however,
with the majority for a long time--sometimes for all life--in the
form of wearisomeness and awkwardness after certain moments. In a
short while Kolya became accustomed to it; grew bolder, became
familiarized with woman, and rejoiced very much over the fact that
when he came into the establishment, all the girls, and Verka
before all, would call out:

"Jennechka, your lover has come!"

It was pleasant, in relating this to his comrades, to be plucking
at an imaginary moustache.





CHAPTER III.


It was still early--about nine--of a rainy August evening. The
illuminated drawing room in the house of Anna Markovna was almost
empty. Only near the very doors a young telegraph clerk was
sitting, his legs shyly and awkwardly squeezed under his chair,
and was trying to start with the thick-fleshed Katie that worldly,
unconstrained conversation which is laid down as the proper thing
in polite society at quadrille, during the intermissions between
the figures of the dance. And, also, the long-legged, aged Roly-
Poly wandered over the room, sitting down now next one girl, now
another, and entertaining them all with his fluent chatter.

When Kolya Gladishev walked into the front hall, the first to
recognize him was the round-eyed Verka, dressed in her usual
jockey costume. She began to twirl round and round, to clap her
palms, and called out:

"Jennka, Jennka, come quicker, your little lover has come to you
... The little cadet ... And what a handsome little fellow!"

But Jennka was not in the drawing room at this time; a stout head-
conductor had already managed to get hold of her.

This elderly, sedate, and majestic man was a very convenient
guest, because he never lingered in the house for more than twenty
minutes, fearing to let his train go by; and, even so, glanced at
his watch all the while. During this time he regularly drank down
four bottles of beer, and, going away, infallibly gave the girl
half a rouble for candy and Simeon twenty kopecks for drink-money.

Kolya Gladishev was not alone, but with a comrade of the same
school, Petrov, who was stepping over the threshold of a brothel
for the first time, having given in to the tempting persuasions of
Gladishev. Probably, during these minutes, he found himself in the
same wild, absurd, feverish state which Kolya himself had gone
through a year and a half ago, when his legs had shook, his mouth
had grown dry, and the lights of the lamps had danced before him
in revolving wheels.

Simeon took their great-coats from them and hid them separately,
on the side, that the shoulder straps and the buttons might not be
seen.

It must be said, that this stern man, who did not approve of
students because of their free-and-easy facetiousness and
incomprehensible style in conversation, also did not like when
just such boys in uniform appeared in the establishment.

"Well, what's the good of it?" he would at times say sombrely to
his colleagues by profession. "What if a whippersnapper like that
comes, and runs right up nose to nose against his superiors?
Smash, and they've closed up the establishment! There, like
Lupendikha's three years back. Of course, it's nothing that they
closed it up--she transferred it in another name right off; and
when they sentenced her to sit in jail for a year and a half, why,
it came to a pre-etty penny for her. She had to shell out four
hundred for Kerbesh alone ... And then it also happens: a little
pig of that kind will cook up some sort of disease for himself and
start in whining: 'Oh, papa! Oh, mamma! I am dying!' 'Tell me, you
skunk, where you got it?' 'There and there ...' Well, and so they
haul you over the coals again; judge me, thou unrighteous judge!"

"Pass on, pass on," said he to the cadets sternly.

The cadets entered, blinking from the bright light. Petrov, who
had been drinking to get up courage, swayed and was pale. They sat
down beneath the picture of the Feast of the Russian Noblemen, and
immediately two of the young ladies--Verka and Tamara--joined them
on both sides.

"Treat me to a smoke, you beautiful little brunet!" Verka turned
to Petrov; and as though by accident put against his leg her
strong, warm thigh, closely drawn over with white tights. "What an
agreeable little fellow you are!"

"But where's Jennie?" Gladishev asked of Tamara. "Is she busy with
anybody?"

Tamara looked him in the eyes intently--looked so fixedly, that
the boy even began to feel uncomfortable, and turned away.

"No. Why should she be busy? Only the whole day to-day her head
ached; she was walking through the corridor, and at that time the
housekeeper opened the door quickly and accidentally struck her in
the forehead--and so her head started in to ache. The poor thing,
she's lying the whole day with a cold pack. But why? Or can't you
hold out? Wait a while, she'll come out in five minutes. You'll
remain very much satisfied with her."

Verka pestered Petrov:

"Sweetie, dearie, what a tootsie-wootsicums you are! I adore such
pale brunets; they are jealous and very fiery in love."

And suddenly she started singing in a low voice:

    "He's kind of brown,
     My light, my own,
     Won't sell me out, and won't deceive.
     He suffers madly,
     Pants and coat gladly
     All for a woman he will give."

"How do they call you, ducky dear?"

"George," answered Petrov in a hoarse, cadet's bass.

"Jorjik Jorochka! Ah, how very nice!"

She suddenly drew near to his ear and whispered with a cunning
face:

"Jorochka, come to me."

Petrov was abashed and forlornly let out in a bass:

"I don't know ... It all depends on what the comrade says, now
..."

Verka burst into loud laughter:

"There's a case for you! Say, what an infant it is! Such as you,
Jorochka, in a little village would long since have been married;
but he says: 'It all depends on the comrade!' You ought to ask a
nurse or a wet nurse yet! Tamara, my angel, just imagine: I'm
calling him to go sleeping, but he says: 'It all depends on the
comrade.' What about you, mister friend, are you his bringer up?"

"Don't be pestering, you devil!" clumsily, altogether like a cadet
before a quarrel, grumbled out Petrov in a bass.

The lanky, ricketty Roly-Poly, grown still grayer, walked up to
the cadets, and, inclining his long, narrow head to one side, and
having made a touching grimace, began to patter:

"Messieurs cadets, highly educated young people; the flower, so to
speak, of the intelligentzia; future masters of ordnance, will you
not lend to a little old man, an aborigine of these herbiferous
regions, one good old cigarette? I be poor. Omnia mea mecum porto.
But I do adore the weed."

And, having received a cigarette, suddenly, without delay, he got
into a free-and-easy, unconstrained pose; put forward the bent
right leg, put his hand to his side, and began to sing in a
wizened falsetto:

    "It used to be that I gave dinners,
    In rivers flowed the champagne wine;
    But now I have not even bread crusts,
    Nor for a split, oh brother mine.

    It used to be--in the Saratov
    The doorman rushed, and was so fine;
    But now all drive me in the neck,
    Give for a split, oh brother mine."

"Gentlemen!" suddenly exclaimed Roly-Poly with pathos, cutting
short his singing and smiting himself on the chest. "Here I behold
you, and know that you are the future generals Skobelev and Gurko;
but I, too, in a certain respect, am a military hound. In my time,
when I was studying for a forest ranger, all our department of
woods and forests was military; and for that reason, knocking at
the diamond-studded, golden doors of your hearts, I beg of you--
donate toward the raising for an ensign of taxation of a wee
measure of spiritus vini, which same is taken of the monks also."

"Roly!" cried the stout Kitty from the other end, "show the young
officers the lightning; or else, look you, you're taking the money
only for nothing, you good-for-nothing camel."

"Right away!" merrily responded Roly-Poly. "Most illustrious
benefactors, turn your attention this way. Living Pictures.
Thunder Storm on a Summer Day in June. The work of the
unrecognized dramaturgist who concealed himself under the
pseudonym of Roly-Poly. The first picture.

"'It was a splendid day in June. The scorching rays of the sun
illumined the blossoming meadows and environs ...'"

Roly-Poly's Don Quixotic phiz spread into a wrinkled, sweetish
smile; and the eyes narrowed into half-circles.

"'... But now in the distance the first clouds have appeared upon
the horizon. They grew, piled upon each other like crags, covering
little by little the blue vault of the sky."

By degrees the smile was coming off Roly-Poly's face, and it grew
more and more serious and austere.

"'At last the clouds have overcast the sun ... An ominous darkness
has fallen ...'"

Roly-Poly made his physiognomy altogether ferocious.

"'The first drops of the rain fell ...'"

Roly-Poly began to drum his fingers on the back of a chair.

"'... In the distance flashed the first lightning ... '"

Roly-Poly's eye winked quickly, and the left corner of his mouth
gave a twitch.

"'... Whereupon the rain began to pour down in torrents, and there
came a sudden, blinding flash of lightning...'"

And with unusual artistry and rapidity Roly-Poly, with a
successive movement of his eyebrows, eyes, nose, the upper and the
lower lip, portrayed a lightning zig-zag.

"'... A jarring thunder clap burst out--trrroo-oo. An oak that had
stood through the ages fell down to earth, as though it were a
frail reed ...'"

And Roly-Poly with an ease and daring not to be expected from one
of his years, bending neither the knees nor the back, only drawing
down his head, instantaneously fell down; straight, like a statue,
with his back to the floor, but at once deftly sprang up on his
feet.

"'But now the thunder storm is gradually abating. The lightning
flashes less and less often. The thunder sounds duller, just like
a satiated beast--oooooo-oooooo ... The clouds scurry away. The
first rays of the blessed sun have peeped out ...'"

Roly-Poly made a wry smile.

"'... And now, the luminary of day has at last begun to shine anew
over the bathed earth ...'"

And the silliest of beatific smiles spread anew over the senile
face of Roly-Poly.

The cadets gave him a twenty-kopeck piece each. He laid them on
his palm, made a pass in the air with the other hand, said: ein,
zwei, drei, snapped two of his fingers, and the coins vanished.

"Tamarochka, this isn't honest," he said reproachfully. "Aren't
you ashamed to take the last money from a poor retired almost-
head-officer? Why have you hidden them here?"

And, having snapped his fingers again, he drew the coins out of
Tamara's ear.

"I shall return at once, don't be bored without me," he reassured
the young people; "but if you can't wait for me, then I won't have
any special pretensions about it. I have the honour! ..."

"Roly-Poly!" Little White Manka cried after him, "Won't you buy me
candy for fifteen kopecks... Turkish Delight, fifteen kopecks'
worth. There, grab!"

Roly-Poly neatly caught in its flight the thrown fifteen-kopeck
piece; made a comical curtsey and, pulling down the uniform cap
with the green edging at a slant over his eyes, vanished.

The tall, old Henrietta walked up to the cadets, also asked for a
smoke and, having yawned, said:

"If only you young people would dance a bit--for as it is the young
ladies sit and sit, just croaking from weariness."

"If you please, if you please!" agreed Kolya. "Play a waltz and
something else of the sort."

The musicians began to play. The girls started to whirl around
with one another, ceremoniously as usual, with stiffened backs and
with eyes modestly cast down.

Kolya Gladishev, who was very fond of dancing, could not hold out
and invited Tamara; he knew even from the previous winter that she
danced more lightly and skillfully than the rest. While he was
twirling in the waltz, the stout head-conductor, skillfully making
his way between the couples, slipped away unperceived through the
drawing room. Kolya did not have a chance to notice him.

No matter how Verka pressed Petrov, she could not, in any way,
drag him off his place. The recent light intoxication had by now
gone entirely out of his head; and more and more horrible, and
unrealizable, and monstrous did that for which he had come here
seem to him. He might have gone away, saying that not a one here
pleased him; have put the blame on a headache, or something; but
he knew that Gladishev would not let him go; and mainly--it seemed
unbearably hard to get up from his place and to walk a few steps
by himself. And, besides that, he felt that he had not the
strength to start talking of this with Kolya.

They finished dancing. Tamara and Gladishev again sat down side by
side.

"Well, really, how is it that Jennechka isn't coming by now?"
asked Kolya impatiently.

Tamara quickly gave Verka a look with a question, incomprehensible
to the uninitiated, in her eyes. Verka quickly lowered her
eyelashes. This signified: yes, he is gone.

"I'll go right away and call her," said Tamara.

"But what are you so stuck on your Jennka for," said Henrietta.
"You might take me."

"All right, another time," answered Kolya and nervously began to
smoke.

Jennka was not even beginning to dress yet. She was sitting before
the mirror and powdering her face.

"What is it, Tamarochka?" she asked.

"Your little cadet has come to you. He's waiting."

"Ah, that's the little baby of last year... Well, the devil with
him!"

"And that's right, too. But how healthy and handsome the lad has
grown, and how tall... It's a delight, that's all! So if you don't
want to, I'll go myself."

Tamara saw in the mirror how Jennka contracted her eyebrows.

"No, you wait a while, Tamara, don't. I'll see. Send him here to
me. Say that I'm not well, that my head aches."

"I have already told him, anyway, that Zociya had opened the door
unsuccessfully and hit you on the head; and that you're lying down
with a cold pack. But the only thing is, is it worth while,
Jennechka?"

"Whether it's worth while or not, that's not your business,
Tamara," answered Jennka rudely.

Tamara asked cautiously:

"Is it possible, then, that you aren't at all, at all sorry?"

"But for me you aren't sorry?" and she passed her hand over the
red stripe that slashed her throat. "And for yourself you aren't
sorry? And not sorry for this Liubka, miserable as she is? And not
sorry for Pashka? You're huckleberry jelly, and not a human
being!"

Tamara smiled craftily and haughtily:

"No, when it comes to a real matter, I'm not jelly. Perhaps you'll
see this soon, Jennechka. Only let's better not quarrel--as it is
it isn't any too sweet to live. All right, I'll go at once and
send him to you."

When she had gone away, Jennka lowered the light in the little
hanging blue lantern, put on her night blouse, and lay down. A
minute later Gladishev walked in; and after him Tamara, dragging
Petrov by the hand, who resisted and kept his head down. And in
the rear was thrust in the pink, sharp, foxy little phiz of the
cross-eyed housekeeper Zociya.

"And that's fine, now," the housekeeper commenced to bustle. "It's
just sweet to look at; two handsome gents and two swell dames. A
regular bouquet. What shall I treat you with, young people? Will
you order beer or wine?"

Gladishev had a great deal of money in his pocket, as much as he
never had before during all his brief life--all of twenty-five
roubles; and he wanted to go on a splurge. Beer he drank only out
of bravado, but could not bear its bitter taste, and wondered
himself how others could ever drink it. And for that reason,
squeamishly, like an old rake, sticking out his lower lip, he said
mistrustfully:

"But then, you surely must have some awful stuff?"

"What do you mean, what do you mean, good-looking! The very best
gentlemen approve of it. Of the sweet, there are Cagore, church
wine, Teneriffe; while of the French there's Lafitte. You can get
port wine also. The girls just simply adore Lafitte with
lemonade."

"And what are the prices?"

"No dearer than money. As is the rule in all good establishments--
a bottle of Lafitte five roubles, four bottles of lemonade at a
half each, that's two roubles, and only seven in all..."

"That'll do you, Zociya," Jennka stopped her indifferently, "it's
a shame to take advantage of boys. Even five is enough. You can
see these are decent people, and not just anybody..."

But Gladishev turned red, and with a negligent air threw a ten
rouble note on the table.

"Oh, what's the use of talking about it. All right, bring it."

"Whilst I'm at it, I'll take the money for the visit as well. What
about you, young people--are you on time or for the night? You
know the rates yourself: on time, at two roubles; for the night,
at five."

"All right, all right. On time," interrupted Jennka, flaring up.
"Trust us in that, at least."

The wine was brought. Tamara through importunity got pastry,
besides. Jennka asked for permission to call in Little White
Manka. Jennka herself did not drink, did not get up from the bed,
and all the time muffled herself up in a gray shawl of Orenburg
[Footnote: Orenburg has as high a reputation for woolens as
Sheffield has for steel.--Trans] manufacture, although it was hot
in the room. She looked fixedly, without tearing her eyes away, at
the handsome, sunburned face of Gladishev, which had become so
manly.

"What's the matter with you, dearie?" asked Gladishev, sitting
down on her bed and stroking her hand.

"Nothing special... Head aches a little... I hit myself."

"Well, don't you pay any attention."

"Well, here I've seen you, and already I feel better. How is it
you haven't been here for so long?"

"I couldn't snatch away the time, nohow-camping. You know
yourself... We had to put away twenty-five versts a day. The whole
day drilling and drilling: field, formation, garrison. With a full
pack. Used to get so fagged out from morning to night that towards
evening you couldn't feel your legs under you... We were at the
manoeuvres also... It isn't sweet..."

"Oh, you poor little things!" Little White Manka suddenly clasped
her hands. "And what do they torture you for, angels that you are?
If I was to have a brother like you, or a son--my heart would just
simply bleed. Here's to your health, little cadet!"

They clinked glasses. Jennka was just as attentively scrutinizing
Gladishev.

"And you, Jennechka?" he asked, extending a glass.

"I don't want to," she answered listlessly, "but, however, ladies,
you've drunk some wine, chatted a bit--don't wear the welcome off
the mat."

"Perhaps you'll stay with me the whole night?" she asked
Gladishev, when the others had gone away. "Don't you be afraid,
dearie; if you won't have enough money, I'll pay the difference
for you. You see, how good-looking you are, that a wench does not
grudge even money for you?" she began laughing.

Gladishev turned around to her; even his unobserving ear was
struck by Jennka's strange tone--neither sad, nor kindly, nor yet
mocking.

"No, sweetie, I'd be very glad to; I'd like to remain myself, but
I can't possibly; I promised to be home toward ten o'clock."

"That's nothing, dear, they'll wait; you're altogether a grown-up
man now. Is it possible that you have to listen to anybody? ...
But, however, as you wish. Shall I put out the light entirely,
perhaps; or is it all right the way it is? Which do you want--the
outside or near the wall?"

"It's immaterial to me," he answered in a quavering voice; and,
having embraced with his arm the hot, dry body of Jennka, he
stretched with his lips toward her face. She slightly repulsed
him.

"Wait, bear a while, sweetheart--we have time enough to kiss our
fill yet. Just lie still for one little minute... So, now...
quiet, peaceful... don't stir..."

These words, passionate and imperious, acted like hypnosis upon
Gladishev. He submitted to her and lay down on his back, putting
his hands underneath his head. She raised herself a little, leant
upon her elbow, and placing her head upon the bent hand, silently,
in the faint half-light, was looking his body over--so white,
strong, muscular; with a high and broad pectoral cavity; with
well-made ribs; with a narrow pelvis; and with mighty, bulging
thighs. The dark tan of the face and the upper half of the neck
was divided by a sharp line from the whiteness of the shoulders
and breast.

Gladishev blinked for a second. It seemed to him that he was
feeling upon himself, upon his face, upon his entire body, this
intensely fixed gaze, which seemed to touch his face and tickle
it, like the cobwebby contact of a comb, which you first rub
against a cloth--the sensation of a thin, imponderous, living
matter.

He opened his eyes and saw altogether near him the large, dark,
uncanny eyes of the woman, who seemed to him now an entire
stranger.

"What are you looking at, Jennie?" he asked quietly. "What are you
thinking of?"

"My dear little boy! ...They call you Kolya: isn't that so?"

"Yes."

"Don't be angry at me, carry out a certain caprice of mine,
please: shut your eyes again... no, even tighter, tighter... I
want to turn up the light and have a good look at you. There now,
so... If you only knew how beautiful you are now... right now...
this second. Later you will become coarse, and you will begin
giving off a goatish smell; but now you give off an odour of fur
and milk... and a little of some wild flower. But shut them--shut
your eyes!"

She added light, returned to her place, and sat down in her
favourite pose--Turkish fashion. Both kept silent. In the
distance, several rooms away, a broken-down grand piano was
tinkling; somebody's vibrating laughter floated in; while from the
other side--a little song, and rapid, merry talking. The words
could not be heard. A cabby was rumbling by somewhere through the
distant street...

"And now I will infect him right away, just like all the others,"
pondered Jennka, gliding with a deep gaze over his well-made legs,
his handsome torso of a future athlete, and over his arms, thrown
back, upon which, above the bend of the elbow, the muscles
tautened--bulging, firm. "Why, then, am I so sorry for him? Or is
it because he is such a good-looking little fellow? No. I am long
since a stranger to such feelings. Or is it because he is a boy?
Why, only a little over a year ago I shoved apples in his pocket,
when he was going away from me at night. Why have I not told him
then that which, I can, and dare, tell him now? Or would he not
have believed me, anyway? Would have grown angry? Would have gone
to another? For sooner or later this turn awaits every man... And
that he bought me for money--can that be forgiven? Or did he act
just as all of them do--blindly? ..."

"Kolya!" she said quietly, "Open your eyes."

He obeyed, opened his eyes, turned to her; entwined her neck with
his arm, drew her a little to him, and wanted to kiss her in the
opening of her chemise--on the breast. She again tenderly but
commandingly repulsed him.

"No, wait a while, wait a while--hear me out... one little minute
more. Tell me, boy, why do you come here to us--to the women?"

Kolya quietly and hoarsely began laughing.

"How silly you are! Well, what do they all come for? Am I not also
a man? For, it seems, I'm at that age when in every man ripens...
well, a certain need... for woman. For I'm not going to occupy
myself with all sorts of nastiness!"

"Need? Only need? That means, just as for that chamber which
stands under my bed?"

"No, why so?" retorted Kolya, with a kindly laugh. "I liked you
very much... From the very first time... If you will, I'm even...
a little in love with you... at least, I never stayed with any of
the others."

"Well, all right! But then, the first time, could it possibly have
been need?"

"No, perhaps, it wasn't need even; but somehow, vaguely, I wanted
woman... My friends talked me into it... Many had already gone
here before me... So then, I too..."

"But, now, weren't you ashamed the first time?"

Kolya became confused; all this interrogation was to him
unpleasant, oppressive. He felt, that this was not the empty, idle
bed talk, so well known to him, out of his small experience; but
something else, of more import.

"Let's say... not that I was ashamed... well, but still I felt
kind of awkward. I drank that time to get up courage."

Jennie again lay down on her side; leaned upon her elbow, and
again looked at him from time to time, near at hand and intently.

"But tell me, sweetie," she asked, in a barely audible voice, so
that the cadet with difficulty made out her words, "tell me one
thing more; but the fact of your paying money, these filthy two
roubles--do you understand?--paying them for love, so that I might
caress, kiss you, give all my body to you--didn't you feel ashamed
to pay for that? Never?"

"Oh, my God! What strange questions you put to me to-day! But then
they all pay money! Not I, then some one else would have paid--
isn't it all the same to you?"

"And have you been in love with any one, Kolya? Confess! Well,
now, if not in real earnest, then just so... at soul... Have you
done any courting? Brought little flowers of some sort... Strolled
arm-in-arm with her under the moon? Wasn't that so?"

"Well, yes," said Koiya in a sedate bass. "What follies don't
happen in one's youth! It's a matter anyone can understand..."

"Some sort of a little first cousin? An educated young lady? A
boarding school miss? A high school girl? ... There has been,
hasn't there?"

"Well, yes, of course--everybody has them."

"Why, you wouldn't have touched her, would you? ... You'd have
spared her? Well, if she had only said to you: take me, but only
give me two roubles--what would you have said to her?"

"I don't understand you, Jennka!" Gladishev suddenly grew angry.
"What are you putting on airs for! What sort of comedy are you
trying to put over! Honest to God, I'll dress myself at once and
go away."

"Wait a while, wait a while, Kolya! One more, one more, the last,
the very, very last question."

"Oh, you!" growled Kolya displeased.

"And could you never imagine... well, imagine it right now, even
for a second... that your family has suddenly grown poor, become
ruined. You'd have to earn your bread by copying papers; or, now,
let's say, through carpenter or blacksmith work; and your sister
was to go wrong, like all of us... yes, yes, yours, your own
sister... if some blockhead seduced her and she was to go
travelling... from hand to hand... what would you say then?"

"Bosh! ... That can't be..." Kolya cut her short curtly. "But,
however, that's enough--I'm going away!"

"Go away, do me that favour! I've ten roubles lying there, near
the mirror, in a little box from chocolates--take them for
yourself. I don't need them, anyway. Buy with them a tortoise
powder box with a gold setting for your mamma; and if you have a
little sister, buy her a good doll. Say: in memory from a certain
wench that died. Go on, little boy!"

Kolya, with a frown, angry, with one shove of a well-knit body
jumped off the bed, almost without touching it. Now he was
standing on the little mat near the bed, naked, well-formed,
splendid in all the magnificence of his blooming, youthful body.

"Kolya!" Jennka called him quietly, insistently and caressingly.
"Kolechka!"

He turned around to her call, and drew in the air in a short,
jerky gust, as though he had gasped: he had never yet in his life
met anywhere, even in pictures, such a beautiful expression of
tenderness, sorrow, and womanly silent reproach, as the one he was
just now beholding in the eyes of Jennka, filled with tears. He
sat down on the edge of the bed, and impulsively embraced her
around the bared, swarthy arms.

"Let's not quarrel, then, Jennechka," he said tenderly.

And she twined herself around him, placed her arms on his neck,
while her head she pressed against his breast. They kept silent so
for several seconds.

"Kolya," Jennie suddenly asked dully, "but were you never afraid
of becoming infected?"

Kolya shivered. Some chill, loathsome horror stirred and glided
through within his soul. He did not answer at once.

"Of course, that would be horrible... horrible... God save me! But
then I go only to you alone, only to you! You'd surely have told
me? ..."

"Yes, I'd have told you," she uttered meditatively. And at once
rapidly, consciously, as though having weighed the significance of
her words: "Yes, of course, of course, I would have told you! But
haven't you ever heard what sort of a thing is that disease called
syphilis?"

"Of course, I've heard... The nose falls through..."

"No, Kolya, not only the nose! The person becomes all diseased:
his bones, sinews, brains grow diseased... Some doctors say such
nonsense as that it's possible to be cured of this disease. Bosh!
You'll never cure yourself! A person rots ten, twenty, thirty
years. Every second paralysis can strike him down, so that the
right side of the face, the right arm, the right leg die--it isn't
a human being that's living, but some sort of a little half. Half-
man-half-corpse. The majority of them go out of their minds. And
each understands... every person... each one so infected
understands, that if he eats, drinks, kisses, simply even
breathes--he can't be sure that he won't immediately infect some
one of those around him, the very nearest--sister, wife, son... To
all syphilitics the children are born monsters, abortions,
goitrous, consumptives, idiots. There, Kolya, is what this disease
means. And now," Jennka suddenly straightened up quickly, seized
Kolya fast by his bare shoulders, turned his face to her, so that
he was almost blinded by the flashing of her sorrowful, sombre,
extraordinary eyes, "and now, Kolya, I will tell you that for more
than a month I am sick with this filth. And that's just why I
haven't allowed you to kiss me..."

"You're joking! ... You're teasing me on purpose, Jennie!"
muttered Gladishev, wrathful, frightened, and out of his wits.

"Joking? ...Come here!"

She abruptly compelled him to get up on his feet, lit a match and
said:

"Now look closely at what I'm going to show you..."

She opened her mouth wide and placed the light so that it would
illumine her larynx. Kolya looked and staggered back.

"Do you see these white spots? This is syphilis, Kolya! Do you
understand?--syphilis in the most fearful, the most serious stage.
Now dress yourself and thank God."

He, silently and without looking around at Jennka, began to dress
hurriedly, missing his clothes when he tried to put his legs
through. His hands were shaking, and his under jaw jumped so that
the lower teeth knocked against the upper; while Jennka was
speaking with bowed head:

"Listen, Kolya, it's your good fortune that you've run across an
honest woman; another wouldn't have spared you. Do you hear that?
We, whom you deprive of innocence and then drive out of your home,
while later you pay us two roubles a visit, we always--do you
understand?"--she suddenly raised her head--"we always hate you
and never have any pity for you!"

The half-clad Kolya suddenly dropped his dressing, sat down on the
bed near Jennka and, covering his face with his palms, burst into
tears; sincerely, altogether like a child...

"Lord, Lord," he whispered, "why this is the truth! ... What a
vile thing this really is! ... We, also, we had this happen: we
had a chambermaid, Niusha...a chambermaid... they also called her
signorita Anita...a pretty little girl...and my brother lived with
her...my elder brother...an officer...and when he went away, she
proved pregnant and mother drove her out...well, yes--drove her
out...threw her out of the house, like a floor mop...Where is she
now? And father...father...he also with a cham...chambermaid."

And the half-naked Jennka, this Jennka, the atheist, swearer, and
brawler, suddenly got up from the bed, stood before the cadet, and
slowly, almost solemnly, made the sign of the cross over him.

"And may God preserve you my boy!" she said with an expression of
deep tenderness and gratitude.

And at once she ran to the door, opened it and called out:
"Housekeeper!"

"Tell you what, housekeeper dear," Jennka directed, "go and find
out, please, which one of them is free--Tamara or Little White
Manka. And the one that's free send here."

Kolya growled out something in the back, but Jennka purposely did
not listen to him.

"And please make it as quick as possible, housekeeper dear, won't
you be so kind?"

"Right away, right away, miss."

"Why, why do you do this, Jennie?" asked Gladishev with anguish.
"Well, what's that for? ...Is it possible that you want to tell
about it? ..."

"Wait awhile, that's not your business...Wait a while, I won't do
anything unpleasant for you."

After a minute Little White Manka came in her brown, smooth,
deliberately modest dress of a high school girl.

"What did you call me for, Jennie? Or have you quarreled?"

"No, we haven't quarreled, Mannechka, but my head aches very
much," answered Jennka calmly, "and for that reason my little
friend finds me very cold. Be a friend, Mannechka, stay with him,
take my place!"

"That's enough, Jennie, stop it, darling!" in a tone of sincere
suffering retorted Kolya. "I understand everything, everything,
it's not necessary now ... Don't be finishing me off, then! ..."

"I don't understand anything of what's happened," the frivolous
Manka spread out her hands. "Maybe you'll treat a poor little girl
to something?"

"Well, go on, go on!" Jennka sent her away gently. "I'll come
right away. We just played a joke."

Already dressed, they stood for long in the open door between the
bedroom and the corridor; and without words sadly looked at each
other. And Kolya did not understand, but sensed, that at this
moment in his soul was taking place one of those tremendous crises
which tell imperiously upon the entire life.

Then he pressed Jennie's hand hard and said:

"Forgive! ... Will you forgive me, Jennie? Will you forgive? ..."

"Yes, my boy! ... Yes, my fine one! ... Yes...yes..."

She tenderly, softly, like a mother, stroked his closely cropped
harsh head and gave him, a slight shove into the corridor.

"Where are you bound now?" she sent after him, half opening her
door.

"I'll take my comrade right away, and then home."

"As you know best! ... God bless you, dearie!"

"Forgive me! ... Forgive me! ..." once more repeated Kolya,
stretching out his hands to her.

"I've already told you, my splendid boy...And you forgive me
too...For we won't see each other anymore!"

And she, having closed the door, was left alone.

In the corridor Gladishev hesitated, because he did not know how
to find the room to which Petrov had retired with Tamara. But the
housekeeper Zociya helped him, running past him very quickly, and
with a very anxious, alarmed air.

"Oh, I haven't time to bother with you now!" she snarled back at
Gladishev's question. "Third door to the left."

Kolya walked up to the door indicated and knocked. Some sort of
bustle and whispering sounded in the room. He knocked once more.

"Kerkovius, open! This is me--Soliterov."

Among the cadets, setting out on expeditions of this sort, it was
always agreed upon to call each other by fictitious names. It was
not so much a conspiracy or a shift against the vigilance of those
in authority, or fear of compromising one's self before a chance
acquaintance of the family, but rather a play, of its own kind, at
mysteriousness and disguise--a play tracing its beginning from
those times when the young people were borne away by Gustave
Aimard, Mayne Reid, and the detective Lecocq.

"You can't come in!" the voice of Tamara came from behind the
door. "You can't come in. We are busy."

But the bass voice of Petrov immediately cut her short:

"Nonsense! She's lying. Come in. It's all right."

Kolya opened the door.

Petrov was sitting on a chair dressed, but all red, morose, with
lips pouting like a child's, with downcast eyes.

"Well, what a friend you've brought--I must say!" Tamara began
speaking sneeringly and wrathfully. "I thought he was a man in
earnest, but this is only some sort of a little girl! He's sorry
to lose his innocence, if you please. What a treasure you've
found, to be sure! But take back, take back your two roubles!" she
suddenly began yelling at Petrov and tossed two coins on the
table. "You'll give them away to some poor chambermaid or other!
Or else save them for gloves for yourself, you marmot!"

"But what are you cursing for?" grumbled Petrov, without raising
his eyes. "I'm not cursing you, am I? Then why do you curse first?
I have a full right to act as I want to. But I have passed some
time with you, and so take them. But to be forced, I don't want
to. And on your part, Gladishev--that is, Soliterov--this isn't at
all nice. I thought she was a nice girl, but she's trying to kiss
all the time, and does God knows what..."

Tamara, despite her wrath, burst into laughter.

"Oh, you little stupid, little stupid! Well, don't be angry--I'll
take your money. Only watch: this very evening you'll be sorry,
you'll be crying. Well, don't be angry, don't be angry, angel,
let's make up. Put your hand out to me, as I'm doing to you."

"Let's go, Kerkovius," said Gladishev. "Au revoir, Tamara!"

Tamara let the money down into her stocking, through the habit of
all prostitutes, and went to show the boys the way.

Even at the time that they were passing through the corridor
Gladishev was struck by the strange, silent, tense bustle in the
drawing room; the trampling of feet and some muffled, low-voiced,
rapid conversations.

Near that place where they had just been sitting below the
picture, all the inmates of Anna Markovna's house and several
outsiders had gathered. They were standing in a close knot,
bending down. Kolya walked up with curiosity, and, wedging his way
through a little, looked in between the heads: on the floor,
sideways, somehow unnaturally drawn up, was lying Roly-Poly. His
face was blue, almost black. He did not move, and was lying
strangely small, shrunken, with legs bent. One arm was squeezed in
under his breast, while the other was flung back.

"What's the matter with him?" asked Gladishev in a fright.

Niurka answered him, starting to speak in a rapid, jerky whisper:

"Roly-Poly just came here...Gave Manka the candy, and then started
in to put Armenian riddles to us...'Of a blue colour, hangs in the
parlor and whistles'...We couldn't guess nohow, but he says: 'A
herring'...Suddenly he started laughing, had a coughing spell, and
began falling sideways; and then--bang on the ground and don't
move...They sent for the police...Lord, there's doings for you!
... I'm horribly afraid of corpseses!"

"Wait!" Gladishev stopped her. "It's necessary to feel his
forehead; he may be alive yet..."

He did try to thrust himself forward, but Simeon's fingers, just
like iron pincers, seized him above the elbows and dragged him
back.

"There's nothing, there's nothing to be inspecting," sternly
ordered Simeon, "go on, now, young gents, out of here! This is no
place for you: the police will come, will summon you as witnesses
--then it's scat! to the devil's dam! for you out of the military
high school! Better go while you're good and healthy!"

He escorted them to the entrance hall, shoved the great-coats into
their hands and added still more sternly:

"Well, now--go at a run...Lively! So's there won't be even a whiff
of you left. And if you come another time, then I won't let youse
in at all. You are wise guys, you are! You gave the old hound
money for whiskey--so now he's gone and croaked."

"Well, don't you get too smart, now!" Gladishev flew at him, all
ruffled up.

"What d'you mean, don't get smart? ..." Simeon suddenly began to
yell infuriatedly, and his black eyes without lashes and brows
became so terrible that the cadets shrank back. "I'll soak you one
on the snout so hard you'll forget how to say papa and mamma! Git,
this second! Or else I'll bust you in the neck!"

The boys went down the steps.

At this time two men were going up, in cloth caps on the sides of
their heads; one in a blue, the other in a red blouse, with the
skirts outside, under the unbuttoned, wide open jackets--
evidently, Simeon's comrades in the profession.

"What?" one of them called out gaily from below, addressing
Simeon, "Is it bye-bye for Roly-Poly?"

"Yes, it must be the finish," answered Simeon. "We've got to throw
him out into the street in the meantime, fellows, or else the
spirits will start haunting. The devil with him, let 'em think
that he drank himself full and croaked on the road."

"But you didn't ... well, now? ... You didn't do for him?"

"Well, now, there's foolish talk! If there'd only been some
reason. He was a harmless fellow. Altogether like a little lamb.
It must be just that his turn came."

"And didn't he find a place where to die! Couldn't he have thought
up something worse?" said the one who was in the red shirt.

"Right you are, there!" seconded the other. "Lived to grin and
died in sin. Well, let's go, mate, what?"

The cadets ran with all their might. Now, in the darkness, the
figure of Roly-Poly drawn up on the floor, with his blue face,
appeared before them in all the horror that the dead possess for
early youth; and especially if recalled at night, in the dark.





CHAPTER IV.


A fine rain, like dust, obstinate and tedious, had been drizzling
since morning. Platonov was working in the port at the unloading
of watermelons. At the mill, where he had since the very summer
proposed to establish himself, luck had turned against him; after
a week he had already quarreled, and almost had a fight, with the
foreman, who was extremely brutal with the workers. About a month
Sergei Ivanovich had struggled along somehow from hand to mouth,
somewheres in the back-yards of Temnikovskaya Street, dragging
into the editorial rooms of The Echoes, from time to time, notes
of street accidents or little humorous scenes from the court rooms
of the justices of the peace. But the hard newspaper game had long
ago grown distasteful to him. He was always drawn to adventures,
to physical labour in the fresh air, to life completely devoid of
even the least hint at comfort; to care-free vagabondage, in which
a man, having cast from him all possible external conditions, does
not know himself what is going to be with him on the morrow. And
for that reason, when from the lower stretches of the Dnieper the
first barges with watermelons started coming in, he willingly
entered a gang of labourers, in which he was known even from last
year, and loved for his merry nature, for his comradely spirit,
and for his masterly ability of keeping count.

This labour was carried on with good team work and with skill.
Four parties, each of five men, worked on each barge. Number one
would reach for a watermelon and pass it on to the second, who was
standing on the side of the barge. The second cast it to the
third, standing already on the wharf; the third threw it over to
the fourth; while the fourth handed it up to the fifth, who stood
on a horse cart and laid the watermelons away--now dark-green, now
white, now striped--into even glistening rows. This work is clean,
lively, and progresses rapidly. When a good party is gotten up, it
is a pleasure to see how the watermelons fly from hand to hand,
are caught with a circus-like quickness and success, and anew, and
anew, without a break, fly, in order to fill up the dray. It is
only difficult for the novices, that have not as yet gained the
skill, have not caught on to that especial sense of the tempo. And
it is not as difficult to catch a watermelon as to be able to
throw it.

Platonov remembered well his first experiences of last year. What
swearing--virulent, mocking, coarse--poured down upon him when for
the third or fourth time he had been gaping and had slowed up the
passing: two watermelons, not thrown in time, had smashed against
the pavement with a succulent crunch, while the completely lost
Platonov dropped the one which he was holding in his hands as
well. The first time they treated him gently; on the second day,
however, for every mistake they began to deduct from him five
kopecks per watermelon out of the common share. The following time
when this happened, they threatened to throw him out of the party
at once, without any reckoning. Platonov even now still remembered
how a sudden fury seized him: "Ah, so? The devil take you!" he had
thought. "And yet you want me to be chary of your watermelons? So
then, here you are, here you are! ..." This flare-up helped him as
though instantaneously. He carelessly caught the watermelons, just
as carelessly threw them over, and to his amazement suddenly felt
that precisely just now he had gotten into the real swing of the
work with all his muscles, sight, and breathing; and understood,
that the most important thing was not to think at all of the
watermelons representing some value, and that then everything went
well. When he, finally, had fully mastered this art, it served him
for a long time as a pleasant and entertaining athletic game of
its own kind. But that, too, passed away. He reached, in, the end,
the stage where he felt himself a will-less, mechanical wheel in a
general machine consisting of five men and an endless chain of
flying watermelons.

Now he was number two. Bending downward rhythmically, he, without
looking, received with both hands the cold, springy, heavy
watermelon; swung it to the right; and, also almost without
looking, or looking only out of the corner of his eye, tossed it
downward, and immediately once again bent down for the next
watermelon. And his ear seized at this time how smack-smack
...smack-smack...the caught watermelons slapped in the hands; and
immediately bent downwards and again threw, letting the air out of
himself noisily--ghe...ghe...

The present work was very profitable; their gang, consisting of
forty men, had taken on the work, thanks to the great rush, not by
the day but by the amount of work done, by the waggon load.
Zavorotny, the head--an enormous, mighty Poltavian--had succeeded
with extreme deftness in getting around the owner; a young man,
and, to boot, in all probability not very experienced as yet. The
owner, it is true, came to his senses later and wanted to change
the stipulations; but experienced melon growers dissuaded him from
it in time: "Drop it. They'll kill you," they told him simply and
firmly. And so, through this very stroke of good luck every member
of the gang was now earning up to four roubles a day. They all
worked with unusual ardour, even with some sort of vehemence; and
if it had been possible to measure with some apparatus the labour
of each one of them, then, in all probability, the number of units
of energy created would have equalled the work of a large
Voronezhian train horse.

However, Zavorotny was not satisfied even with this--he hurried
and hurried his lads on all the time. Professional ambition was
speaking within him; he wanted to bring the daily earnings of
every member of the gang up to five roubles per snout. And gaily,
with unusual ease, twinkled from the harbour to the waggon,
twirling and flashing, the wet green and white watermelons; and
their succulent plashing resounded against accustomed palms.

But now a long blast sounded on the dredging machine in the port.
A second, a third, responded to it on the river; a few more on
shore; and for a long time they roared together in a mighty chorus
of different voices.

"Ba-a-a-st-a-a!" hoarsely and thickly, exactly like a locomotive
blast, Zavorotny started roaring.

And now the last smack-smack--and the work stopped
instantaneously.

Platonov with enjoyment straightened out his back and bent it
backward, and spread out his swollen arms. With pleasure he
thought of having already gotten over that first pain in all the
muscles, which tells so during the first days, when one is just
getting back into the work after disuse. While up to this day,
awaking in the mornings in his lair on Temnikovskaya--also to the
sound of a factory blast agreed upon--he would during the first
minutes experience such fearful pains in his neck, back, in his
arms and legs, that it seemed to him as if only a miracle would be
able to compel him to get up and make a few steps.

"Go-o-o and e-at," Zavorotny began to clamour again.

The stevedores went down to the water; got down on their knees or
laid down flat on the gangplank or on the rafts; and, scooping up
the water in handfuls, washed their wet, heated faces and arms.
Right here, too, on the shore, to one side, where a little grass
had been left yet, they disposed themselves for dinner: placed in
a circle ten of the most ripe watermelons, black bread, and twenty
dried porgies. Gavriushka the Bullet was already running with a
half-gallon bottle to the pot-house and was singing as he went the
soldiers' signal for dinner:

    "Drag spoon and mess-kit out,
    If there's no bread, eat without."

A bare-footed urchin, dirty and so ragged that there was more of
his bare body than clothes upon him, ran up to the gang.

"Which one of you here is Platonov?" he asked, quickly running
over them with his thievish eyes.

"I'm Platonov, and by what name do they tease you?"

"Around the corner here, behind the church, some sort of a young
lady is waiting for you...Here's a note for you."

The whole gang neighed deeply.

"What d'you open up your mouths for, you pack of fools!" said
Platonov calmly. "Give me the note here."

This was a letter from Jennka, written in a round, naive, rolling,
childish handwriting, and not very well spelt.

"Sergei Ivanich. Forgive me that I disturbe you. I must talk over
a very, very important matter with you. I would not be troubling
you if it was Trifles. For only 10 minutes in all. Jennka, whom
you know, from Anna Markovna's."

Platonov got up.

"I'm going away for a little while," he said to Zavorotny. "When
you begin, I'll be in my place."

"Now you've found somethin' to do," lazily and contemptuously said
the head of the gang. "There's the night for that business...Go
ahead, go ahead, who's holding you. But only if you won't be here
when we begin work, then this day don't count. I'll take any
tramp. And as many watermelons as he busts--that's out of your
share, too...I didn't think it of you, Platonov--that you're such
a he-dog..."

Jennka was waiting for him in the tiny little square, sheltered
between a church and the wharf, and consisting of ten sorry
poplars. She had on a gray, one-piece street dress; a simple,
round, straw hat with a small black ribbon. "And yet, even though
she has dressed herself simply," reflected Platonov, looking at
her from a distance with his habitually puckered eyes, "and yet,
every man will walk past, give a look, and inevitably look back
three or four times; he'll feel the especial tone at once."

"Howdy do, Jennka! Very glad to see you," he said cordially,
squeezing the girl's hand. "There, now, I didn't expect it!"

Jennka was reserved, sad, and apparently troubled over something.
Platonov at once understood and sensed this.

"You excuse me, Jennechka, I must have dinner right away," said
he, "so, perhaps, you'll go together with me and tell me what's
the matter, while I'll manage to eat at the same time. There's a
modest little inn not far from here. At this time there are no
people there at all, and there's even a tiny little stall, a sort
of a private room; that will be just the thing for you and me.
Let's go! Perhaps you'll also have a bite of something."

"No. I won't eat," answered Jennka hoarsely, "and I won't detain
you for long...a few minutes. I have to talk things over, have
some advice--but I haven't anybody."

"Very well...Let's go then! In whatever way I can, I'm always at
your service, in everything. I love you very much, Jennka!"

She looked at him sadly and gratefully.

"I know this, Serge Ivanovich; that's why I've come."

"You need money, perhaps? Just say so. I haven't got much with me,
myself; but the gang will trust me with an advance."

"No, thanks...it isn't that at all. I'll tell everything at once,
there, where we're going now."

In the dim, low-ceiled little inn, the customary haunt of petty
thieves, where business was carried on only in the evening, until
very far into the night, Platonov took the little half-dark cubby
hole.

"Give me boiled meat, cucumbers, a large glass of vodka, and
bread," he ordered the waiter.

The waiter--a young fellow with a dirty face; pugnosed; as dirty
and greasy in all his person as though he had just been pulled out
of a cesspool, wiped his lips and asked hoarsely:

"How many kopecks' bread?" "As much as it comes to." Then he
started laughing:

"Bring as much as possible--we'll reckon it up later... and some
bread cider!"

"Well, Jennie, say what your trouble is...I can already see by
your face that there's trouble, or something distasteful in
general...Go ahead and tell it!"

Jennka for a long time plucked her handkerchief and looked at the
tips of her slippers, as though, gathering her strength.
Timorousness had taken possession of her--the necessary and
important words would not come into her mind, for anything.
Platonov came to her aid: "Don't be embarrassed, my dear Jennie,
tell all there is! For you know that I'm like one of the family,
and will never give you away. And perhaps I may really give you
some worth-while advice. Well, dive off with a splash into the
water--begin!"

"That's just it, I don't know how to begin," said Jennka
irresolutely. "Here's what, Sergei Ivanovich, I'm a sick
woman...Understand?--sick in a bad way...With the most nasty
disease...Do you know which?"

"Go on!" said Platonov, nodding his head.

"And I've been that way for a long time...more than a month...a
month and a half, maybe...Yes, more than a month, because I found
out about this on the Trinity..."

Platonov quickly rubbed his forehead with his hand. "Wait a while,
I've recalled it...This was that day I was there together with the
students...isn't that so?"

"That's right, Sergei Ivanovich, that's so..."

"Ah, Jennka," said Platonov reproachfully and with regret. "For do
you know, that after this two of the students got sick...Wasn't it
from you?"

Jennka wrathfully and disdainfully flashed her eyes.

"Perhaps even from me...How should I know? There were a lot of
them...I remember there was this one, now, who was even trying to
pick a fight with you all the time ...A tall sort of fellow, fair-
haired, in pince-nez..."

"Yes, yes...That's Sobashnikov. They passed the news to
me...That's he...that one was nothing--a little coxcomb! But then
the other--him I'm sorry for. Although I've known him long,
somehow I never made the right inquiries about his name...I only
remember that he comes from some city or other--
Poliyansk...Zvenigorodsk... His comrades called him Ramses...When
the physicians--he turned to several physicians--when they told
him irrevocably that he had the lues, he went home and shot
himself...And in the note that he wrote there were amazing things,
something like this: I supposed all the meaning of life to be in
the triumph of mind, beauty and good; with this disease I am not a
man, but junk, rottenness, carrion; a candidate for a progressive
paralytic. My human dignity cannot reconcile itself to this. But
guilty in all that has happened, and therefore in my death as
well, am I alone; for that I, obeying a momentary bestial
inclination, took a woman without love, for money. For that reason
have I earned the punishment which I myself lay upon me..."

"I am sorry for him..." added Platonov quietly.

Jennka dilated her nostrils.

"But I, now, not the very least bit."

"That's wrong...You go away now, young fellow. When I'll need you
I'll call out," said Platonov to the serving-man "Absolutely
wrong, Jennechka! This was an unusually big and forceful man. Such
come only one to the hundreds of thousands. I don't respect
suicides. Most frequent of all, these are little boys, who shoot
and hang themselves over trifles, like a child that has not been
given a piece of candy, and hits itself against the wall to spite
those around it. But before his death I reverently and with sorrow
bow my head. He was a wise, generous, kindly man, attentive to
all; and, as you see, too strict to himself."

"But to me this is absolutely all one," obstinately contradicted
Jennka, "wise or foolish, honest or dishonest, old or young--I
have come to hate them all. Because--look upon me--what am I? Some
sort of universal spittoon, cesspool, privy. Think of it,
Platonov; why, thousands, thousands of people have taken me,
clutched me; grunted, snorted over me; and all those who were, and
all those who might yet have been on my bed--oh, how I hate them
all! If I only could, I would sentence them to torture by fire and
iron! ... I would order..."

"You are malicious and proud, Jennie," said Platonov quietly.

"I was neither malicious nor proud...It's only now. I wasn't ten
yet when my own mother sold me; and since that time I've been
travelling from hand to hand... If only some one had seen a human
being in me! No! ... I am vermin, refuse, worse than a beggar,
worse than a thief, worse than a murderer! ... Even a hangman...we
have even such coming to the establishment--and even he would have
treated me loftily, with loathing: I am nothing; I am a public
wench! Do you understand, Sergei Ivanovich, what a horrible word
this is? Pub-lic! ... This means nobody's: not papa's, not
mamma's, not Russian, not Riyazan, but simply--public! And not
once did it enter anybody's head to walk up to me and think: why,
now, this is a human being too; she has a heart and a brain; she
thinks of something, feels something; for she's not made out of
wood, and isn't stuffed with straw, small hay, or excelsior! And
yet, only I feel this. I, perhaps, am the only one out of all of
them who feels the horror of her position; this black, stinking,
filthy pit. But then, all the girls with whom I have met, and with
whom I am living right now--understand, Platonov, understand me!--
why, they don't realize anything... Talking, walking pieces of
meat! And this is even worse than my malice! ..."

"You are right!" said Platonov quietly. "And this is one of those
questions where you'll always run up against a wall. No one will
help you..."

"No one, no one! ..." passionately exclaimed Jennka. "Do you
remember--this was while you were there: a student carried away
our Liubka..."

"Why, certainly, I remember well! ... Well, and what then?"

"And this is what, that yesterday she came back tattered,
wet...Crying...Left her, the skunk! ... Played a while at
kindliness, and then away with her! 'You,' he says, 'are a
sister.' 'I,' he says, 'will save you, make a human being of
you...'"

"Is that possible?"

"Just so! ... One man I did see, kindly, indulgent, without the
designs of a he-dog--that's you. But then, you're altogether
different. You're somehow queer. You're always wandering
somewhere, seeking something...You forgive me, Sergei Ivanovich,
you're some sort of a little innocent! ... And that's just why
I've come to you, to you alone! ..."

"Speak on, Jennechka..."

"And so, when I found out that I was sick, I almost went out of my
mind from wrath; I choked from wrath ...I thought: and here's the
end; therefore, there's no more use in pitying, there's nothing to
grieve about, nothing to expect...The lid! ... But for all that I
have borne--can it be that there's no paying back for it? Can it
be that there's no justice in the world? Can it be that I can't
even feast myself with revenge?--for that I have never known love;
that of family life I know only by hearsay; that, like a
disgustin', nasty little dog, they call me near, pat me and then
with a boot over the head--get out!--that they made me over, from
a human being, equal to all of them, no more foolish than all
those I've met; made me over into a floor mop, some sort of a
sewer pipe for their filthy pleasures? ...Ugh! ... Is it possible
that for all of this I must take even such a disease with
gratitude as well? ... Or am I a slave? ... A dumb object? ... A
pack horse? ... And so, Platonov, it was just then that I resolved
to infect them all: young, old, poor, rich, handsome, hideous--
all, all, all! ..."

Platonov, who had already long since put his plate away from him,
was looking at her with astonishment, and even more--almost with
horror. He, who had seen in life much of the painful, the filthy,
at times even of the bloody--he grew frightened with an animal
fright before this intensity of enormous, unvented hatred. Coming
to himself, he said:

"One great writer tells of such a case. The Prussians conquered
the French and lorded it over them in every possible way: shot the
men, violated the women, pillaged the houses, burned down the
fields...And so one handsome woman--a Frenchwoman, very handsome,
--having become infected, began out of spite to infect all the
Germans who happened to fall into her embraces. She made ill whole
hundreds, perhaps even thousands...And when she was dying in a
hospital, she recalled this with joy and with pride... [Footnote:
This story is Lit. No. 29, by Guy de Maupassant.--Trans.] But
then, those were enemies, trampling upon her fatherland and
slaughtering her brothers...But you, you, Jennechka! ..."

"But I--all, just all! Tell me, Sergei Ivanovich, only tell me on
your conscience: if you were to find in the street a child, whom
some one had dishonoured, had abused...well, let's say, had stuck
its eyes out, cut its ears off--and then you were to find out that
this man is at this minute walking past you, and that only God
alone, if only He exists, is looking at you this minute from
heaven--what would you do?"

"Don't know," answered Platonov, dully and downcast; but he paled,
and his fingers underneath the table convulsively clenched into
fists, "Perhaps I would kill him..."

"Not 'perhaps,' but certainly! I know you, I sense you. Well, and
now think: every one of us has been abused so, when we were
children! ... Children! ..." passionately moaned out Jennka and
covered her eyes for a moment with her palm. "Why, it comes to me,
you also spoke of this at one time, in our place--wasn't it on
that same evening before the Trinity? ... Yes, children--foolish,
trusting, blind, greedy, frivolous...And we cannot tear ourselves
out of our harness...where are we to go? what are we to do? ...
And please, don't you think it, Sergei Ivanovich--that the spite
within me is strong only against those who wronged just me, me
personally...No, against all our guests in general; all these
cavaliers, from little to big...Well, and so I have resolved to
avenge myself and my sisters. Is that good or no? ..."

"Jehnechka, really I don't know...I can't...I dare not say
anything...I don't understand."

"But even that's not the main thing...For the main thing is this:
I infected them, and did not feel anything--no pity, no remorse,
no guilt before God or my fatherland. Within me was only joy, as
in a hungry wolf that has managed to get at blood...But yesterday
something happened which even I can't understand. A cadet came to
me, altogether a little bit of a lad, silly, with yellow around
his mouth...He used to come to me from still last winter...And
then suddenly I had pity on him... Not because he was very
handsome and very young; and not because he had always been very
polite--even tender, if you will...No, both the one and the other
had come to me, but I did not spare them: with enjoyment I marked
them off, just like cattle, with a red-hot brand ...But this one I
suddenly pitied...I myself don't understand--why? I can't make it
out. It seemed to me, that it would be all the same as stealing
money from a little simpleton, a little idiot; or hitting a blind
man, or cutting a sleeper's throat...if he only were some dried-up
marasmus or a nasty little brute, or a lecherous old fellow, I
would not have stopped. But he was healthy, robust, with chest and
arms like a statue's...and I could not... I gave him his money
back, showed him my disease; in a word, I acted like a fool among
fools. He went away from me...burst into tears...And now since
last evening I haven't slept. I walk around as in a
fog...Therefore--I'm thinking right now--therefore, that which, I
meditated; my dream to infect them all; to infect their fathers,
mothers, sisters, brides--even all the world--therefore, all this
was folly, an empty fantasy, since I have stopped? ... Once again,
I don't understand anything ...Sergei Ivanovich, you are so wise,
you have seen so much of life--help me, then, to find myself now!
..."

"I don't know, Jennechka!" quietly pronounced Platonov. "Not that
I fear telling you, or advising you, but I know absolutely
nothing. This is above my reason... above conscience..."

Jennie crossed her fingers and nervously cracked them.

"And I, too, don't know...Therefore, that which I thought--is not
the truth. Therefore, there is but one thing left me...This
thought came into my head this morning..."

"Don't, don't do it, Jennechka! ... Jennie! ..." Platonov quickly
interrupted her.

"There's one thing: to hang myself..."

"No, no, Jennie, only not that! ... If there were other
circumstances, unsurmountable, I would, believe me, tell you
boldly: well, it's no use, Jennie; it's time to close up shop...
But what you need isn't that at all... If you wish, I can suggest
one way out to you, no less malicious and merciless; but which,
perhaps, will satiate your wrath a hundredfold..."

"What's that?" asked Jennie, wearily, as though suddenly wilted
after her flare-up.

"Well, this is it ... You're still young, and I'll tell you the
truth, you are very handsome; that is, you can be, if you only
want to, unusually stunning ... That's even more than beauty. But
you've never yet known the bounds and the power of your
appearance; and, mainly, you don't know to what a degree such
natures as yours are bewitching, and how mightily they enchain men
to them, and make out of them more than slaves and brutes ... You
are proud, you are brave, you are independent, you are a clever
woman. I know--you have read a great deal, let's presuppose even
trashy books, but still you have read, you have an entirely
different speech from the others. With a successful turn of life,
you can cure yourself, you can get out of these 'Yamkas,' these
'Little Ditches,' into freedom. You have only to stir a finger, in
order to see at your feet hundreds of men; submissive, ready for
your sake for vileness, for theft, for embezzlement ... Lord it
over them with tight reins, with a cruel whip in your hands! ...
Ruin them, make them go out of their minds, as long as your desire
and energy hold out! ... Look, my dear Jennie, who manages life
now if not women! Yesterday's chambermaid, laundress, chorus girl
goes through estates worth millions, the way a country-woman of
Tver cracks sunflower seeds. A woman scarcely able to sign her
name, at times affects the destiny of an entire kingdom through a
man. Hereditary princes marry the street-walkers, the kept
mistresses of yesterday... Jennechka, there is the scope for your
unbridled vengeance; while I will admire you from a distance...
For you--you are made of this stuff--you are a bird of prey, a
spoliator... Perhaps not with such a broad sweep--but you will
cast them down under your feet."

"No," faintly smiled Jennka. "I thought of this before ... But
something of the utmost importance has burned out within me. There
are no forces within me, there is no will within me, no desires
... I am somehow all empty inside, rotted ... Well, now, you know,
there's a mushroom like that--white, round,--you squeeze it, and
snuff pours out of it. And the same way with me. This life has
eaten out everything within me save malice. And I am flabby, and
my malice is flabby ... I'll see some little boy again, will have
pity on him, will be punishing myself again ... No, it's better
... better so! ..."

She became silent. And Platonov did not know what to say. It
became oppressive and awkward for both. Finally, Jennka got up,
and, without looking at Platonov, extended her cold, feeble hand
to him.

"Good-bye, Sergei Ivanovich! Excuse me, that I took up your time
... Oh, well, I can see myself that you'd help me, if you only
could ... But, evidently, there's nothing to be done here ...
Good-bye!"

"Only don't do anything foolish, Jennechka! I implore you! ..."

"Oh, that's all right!" said she and made a tired gesture with her
hand.

Having come out of the square, they parted; but, having gone a few
steps, Jennka suddenly called after him:

"Sergei Ivanovich, oh Sergei Ivanovich! ..."

He stopped, turned around, walked back to her.

"Roly-Poly croaked last evening in our drawing room. He jumped and
he jumped, and then suddenly plumped down ... Oh, well, it's an
easy death at least! And also I forgot to ask you, Sergei
Ivanovich ... This is the last, now ... Is there a God or no?"

Platonov knit his eyebrows.

"What answer can I make? I don't know. I think that there is, but
not such as we imagine Him. He is more wise, more just..."

"And future life? There, after death? Is there, now, as they tell
us, a paradise or hell? Is that the truth? Or is there just
nothing at all? A barren void? A sleep without a dream? A dark
basement?"

Platonov kept silent, trying not to look at Jennka. He felt
oppressed and frightened.

"I don't know," said he, finally, with an effort. "I don't want to
lie to you."

Jennka sighed, and smiled with a pitiful, twisted smile.

"Well, thanks, my dear. And thanks for even that much ... I wish
you happiness. With all my soul. Well, good-bye..."

She turned away from him and began slowly, with a wavering walk,
to climb up the hill.

Platonov returned to work just in the nick of time. The gathering
of tramps, scratching, yawning, working out their accustomed
dislocations, were getting into their places. Zavorotny, at a
distance, with his keen eyes caught sight of Platonov and began to
yell over the whole port:

"You did manage to get here in time, you round-shouldered devil
... But I was already wanting to take you by the tail and chase
you out of the gang ... Well, get in your place! ..."

"Well, but I did get a he-dog in you, Serejka! ..." he added, in a
kindly manner. "If only it was night; but no,--look you, he starts
in playing ring-around-a-rosie in broad daylight..."





CHAPTER V.


Saturday was the customary day of the doctor's inspection, for
which they prepared very carefully and with quaking in all the
houses; as, however, even society ladies prepare themselves, when
getting ready for a visit to a physician-specialist; they
diligently made their intimate toilet and inevitably put on clean
underthings, even as dressy as possible. The windows toward the
street were closed with shutters, while at one of those windows,
which gave out upon the yard, was put a table with a hard bolster
to put under the back.

All the girls were agitated ... "And what if there's a disease,
which I haven't noticed myself? ... And then the despatch to a
hospital; disgrace; the tedium of hospital life; bad food; the
hard course of treatment..."

Only Big Manka--or otherwise Manka the Crocodile--Zoe, and
Henrietta--all thirty years old, and, therefore, in the reckoning
of Yama, already old prostitutes, who had seen everything, had
grown inured to everything, grown indifferent to their trade, like
white, fat circus horses--remained imperturbably calm. Manka the
Crocodile even often said of herself:

"I have gone through fire and water and pipes of brass ... Nothing
will stick to me any more."

Jennka, since morning, was meek and pensive. She presented to
Little White Manka a golden bracelet; a medallion upon a thin
little chain with her photograph; and a silver neck crucifix.
Tamara she moved through entreaty into taking two rings for
remembrance: one of silver, in three hoops, that could be moved
apart, with a heart in the middle, and under it two hands that
clasped one another when all the three parts of the ring were
joined; while the other was of thin gold wire with an almandine.

"As for my underwear, Tamarochka--you give it to Annushka, the
chambermaid. Let her wash it out well and wear it in good health,
in memory of me."

The two of them were sitting in Tamara's room. Jennka had in the
very morning sent after cognac; and now slowly, as though lazily,
was imbibing wine-glass after wine-glass, eating lemon and a piece
of sugar after drinking. Tamara was observing this for the first
time and wondered, because Jennka had always disliked wine, and
drank very rarely; and then only at the constraint of guests.

"What are you giving stuff away so to-day?" asked Tamara. "Just as
though you'd gotten ready to die, or to go into a convent?"

"Yes, and I will go away," answered Jennka listlessly. "I am
weary, Tamarochka! ..."

"Well, which one of us has a good time?"

"Well, no! ... It isn't so much that I'm weary; but somehow
everything--everything is all the same ... I look at you, at the
table, at the bottle; at my hands and feet; and I'm thinking, that
all this is alike and everything is to no purpose ... There's no
sense in anything ... Just like on some old, old picture. Look
there--there's a soldier walking on the street, but it's all one
to me, as though they had wound up a doll, and it's moving ... And
that he's wet under the ram, is also all one to me ... And that
he'll die, and I'll die, and you, Tamara, will die--in this also I
see nothing frightful, nothing amazing... So simple and wearisome
is everything to me..."

Jennka was silent for a while; drank one more wine-glass; sucked
the sugar, and, still looking out at the street, suddenly asked:

"Tell me, please, Tamara, I've never asked you about it--from
where did you get in here, into the house? You don't at all
resemble all of us; you know everything; for everything that turns
up you have a good, clever remark ... Even French, now--how well
you spoke it that time! But none of us knows anything at all about
you ... Who are you?"

"Darling Jennechka, really, it's not worth while ... A life like
any life ... I went to boarding school; was a governess; sang in a
choir; then kept a shooting gallery in a summer garden; and then
got mixed up with a certain charlatan and taught myself to shoot
with a Winchester ... I traveled with circuses--I represented an
American Amazon. I used to shoot splendidly ... Then I found
myself in a monastery. There I passed two years ... I've been
through a lot ... Can't recall everything ... I used to steal..."

"You've lived through a great deal ... Checkered-like."

"But then, my years are not a few. Well, what do you think--how
many?"

"Twenty-two, twenty-four? ..."

"No, my angel! It just struck thirty-two a week ago. I, if you
like, am older than all of you here in Anna Markovna's. Only I
didn't wonder at anything, didn't take anything near to heart. As
you see, I never drink ... I occupy myself very carefully with the
care of rny body; and the main thing, the very main thing--I don't
allow myself ever to be carried away with men..."

"Well, but what about your Senka? ..."

"Senka--that's a horse of another colour; the heart of woman is
foolish, inconsistent ... Can it possibly live without love? And
even so, I don't love him, but just so ... a self-deception ...
But, however, I shall be in very great need of Senka soon."

Jennka suddenly grew animated and looked at her friend with
curiosity.

"But how did you come to get stuck right here, in this hole? So
clever, handsome, sociable..."

"I'd have to take a long time in telling it ... And then I'm too
lazy ... I got in here out of love; I got mixed up with a certain
young man and went into a revolution with him. For we always act
so, we women: where the dearie is looking, there we also look;
what the dearie sees, that we also see ... I didn't believe at
soul in his work, but I went. A flattering man he was; smart, a
good talker, a good looker ... Only he proved to be a skunk and a
traitor afterwards. He played at revolution; while he himself gave
his comrades away to the gendarmes. A stool-pigeon, he was. When
they had killed and shown him up, then all the foolishness left
me. However, it was necessary to conceal myself ... I changed my
passport. Then they advised me, that the easiest thing of all was
to screen myself with a yellow ticket ... And then the fun began!
... And even here I'm on a sort of pasture ground; when the time
comes, the successful moment arrives--I'll go away!"

"Where?" asked Jennie with impatience.

"The world is large ... And I love life! ... There, now, I was the
same way in the convent: I lived on and I lived on; sang
antiphonies and dulias, until I had rested up, and had finally
grown weary of it; and then all at once--hop! and into a cabaret
... Wasn't that some jump? The same way out of here ... I'll get
into a theatre, into a circus, into a corps de ballet ... but do
you know, Jennechka, I'm drawn to the thieving trade the most,
after all ... Daring, dangerous, hard, and somehow intoxicating
... It's drawing me! ... Don't you mind that I'm so respectable
and modest, and can appear an educated young lady. I'm entirely,
entirely different."

Her eyes suddenly blazed up, vividly and gaily.

"There's a devil dwells in me!"

"It's all very well for you," pensively and with weariness
pronounced Jennie. "You at least desire something, but my soul is
some sort of carrion ... I'm twenty-five years old, now; but my
soul is like that of an old woman, shrivelled up, smelling of the
earth ... And if I had only lived sensibly! ... Ugh! ... There was
only some sort of slush."

"Drop it, Jennka; you're talking foolishly. You're smart, you're
original; you have that special power before which men crawl and
creep so willingly. You go away from here, too. Not with me, of
course--I'm always single--but go away all by your own self."

Jennka shook her head and quietly, without tears, hid her face in
her palms.

"No, she responded dully, after a long silence," no, this won't
work out with me: fate has chewed me all up! ... I'm not a human
being any more, but some sort of dirty cud ... Eh!" she suddenly
made a gesture of despair. 'Let's better drink some cognac,
Jennechka,'" she addressed herself, "'and let's suck the lemon a
little! ...' Brr ... what nasty stuff! ... And where does Annushka
always get such abominable stuff? If you smear a dog's wool with
it, it will fall off ... And always, the low-down thing, she'll
take an extra half. Once I somehow ask her--'What are you hoarding
money for?' 'Well, I,' she says, 'am saving it up for a wedding.
What sort,' she says, 'of joy will it be for my husband, that I'll
offer him up my innocence alone! I must earn a few hundreds in
addition.' She's happy! ... I have here, Tamara, a little money
in. the little box under the mirror; you pass it on to her,
please..."

"And what are you about, you fool; do you want to die, or what?"
sharply, with reproach, said Tamara.

"No, I'm saying it just so, if anything happens ... Take it, now,
take the money! Maybe they'll take me off to the hospital ... And
how do you know what's going to take place there? I left myself
some small change, if anything happens ... And supposing that I
wanted to do something to myself in downright earnest, Tamarochka
--is it possible that you'd interfere with me?"

Tamara looked at her fixedly, deeply, and calmly. Jennie's eyes
were sad, and as though vacant. The living fire had become
extinguished in them, and they seemed turbid, just as though
faded, with whites like moonstone.

"No," Tamara said at last, quietly but firmly. "If it was on
account of love, I'd interfere; if it was on account of money, I'd
talk you out of it: but there are cases where one must not
interfere. I wouldn't help, of course; but I also wouldn't seize
you and interfere with you."

At this moment the quick-limbed housekeeper Zociya whirled through
the corridor with an outcry:

"Ladies, get dressed! The doctor has arrived ... Ladies, get
dressed! ... Lively, ladies! ..."

"Well, go on, Tamara, go on," said Jennka tenderly, getting up.
"I'll run into my room for just a minute--I haven't changed my
dress yet, although, to tell the truth, this also is all one. When
they'll be calling out for me, and I don't come in time, call out,
run in after me."

And, going out of Tamara's room, she embraced her by the shoulder,
as though by chance, and stroked it tenderly.

Doctor Klimenko--the official city doctor--was preparing in the
parlor everything indispensable for an nspection--vaseline, a
solution of sublimate, and other things--and was placing them on a
separate little table. Here also were arranged for him the white
blanks of the girls, replacing their passports, as well as a
general alphabetical list. The girls, dressed only in their
chemises, stockings, and slippers, were standing and sitting at a
distance. Nearer the table was standing the proprietress herself--
Anna Markovna--while a little behind her were Emma Edwardovna and
Zociya.

The doctor--aged, disheartened, slovenly; a man indifferent to
everything--put the pince-nez crookedly upon his nose, looked at
the list, and called out:

"Alexandra Budzinskaya! ..."

The frowning, little, pug-nosed Nina stepped out. Preserving on
her face an angry expression, and breathing heavily from shame,
from the consciousness of her own awkwardness, and from the
exertions, she clumsily climbed up on the table. The doctor,
squinting through his pince-nez and dropping it every minute,
carried out the inspection.

"Go ahead! ... You're sound."

And on the reverse side of the blank he marked off: "Twenty-eighth
of August. Sound" and put down a curly-cue. And when he had not
even finished writing called out:

"Voshchenkova, Irene! ..."

Now it was the turn of Liubka. She, during the past month and a
half of comparative freedom, had had time to grow unaccustomed to
the inspections of every week; and when the doctor turned up the
chemise over her breast, she suddenly turned as red as only very
bashful women can--even with her back and breast.

After her was the turn of Zoe; then of Little White Manka; after
that of Tamara and Niurka--the last, the doctor found, had
gonorrhoea, and ordered her to be sent off to a hospital.

The doctor carried out the inspection with amazing rapidity. It
was now nearly twenty years that every week, on Saturdays, he had
to inspect in such a manner several hundred girls; and he had
worked out that habitual technical dexterity and rapidity, a calm
carelessness of movements, which is; frequently to be found in
circus artists, in card sharpers, in furniture movers and packers,
and in other professionals. And he carried out his manipulations
with the same calmness with which a drover or a veterinary
inspects several hundred head of cattle in a day.

Did he ever think that before him were living people; or that he
appeared as the last and most important link of that fearful chain
which is called legalized prostitution?

No! And even if he did experience this, then it must have been in
the very beginning of his career. Now before him were only naked
abdomens, naked backs, and opened mouths. Not one exemplar of all
this faceless herd of every Saturday would he have recognized
subsequently on the street. The main thing was the necessity of
finishing as soon as possible the inspection in one establishment,
in order to pass on to another, to a third, a ninth, a
twentieth...

"Susannah Raitzina!" the doctor finally called out.

No one walked up to the table.

All the inmates of the house began to exchange glances and to
whisper.

"Jennka ... Where's Jennka? ..."

But she was not among the girls.

Then Tamara, just released by the doctor, moved a little forward
and said:

"She isn't here. She hasn't had a chance to get herself ready yet.
Excuse me, Mr. Doctor, I'll go right away and call her."

She ran into the corridor and did not return for a long time.
After her went, at first Emma Edwardovna, then Zociya, several
girls, and even Anna Markovna herself.

"PFUI! What indecency is this! ... "the majestic Emma Edwardovna
was saying in the corridor, making an indignant face. "And
eternally this Jennka! ... Always this Jennka! ... It seems my
patience has already burst ..."

But Jennka was nowhere--neither in her room, nor in Tamara's. They
looked into other chambers, in all the out-of-the-way corners ...
But she did not prove to be even there.

"We must look in the water-closet ... Perhaps she's there?"
surmised Zoe.

But this institution was locked from the inside with a bolt. Emma
Edwardovna knocked on the door with her fist.

"Jennie, do come out at last! What foolishness is this?"

And, raising her voice, she cried out impatiently and
threateningly:

"Do you hear, you swine? ... Come out this minute--the doctor's
waiting!"

But there was no answer of any sort.

All exchanged glances with fear in their eyes, with one and the
same thought in mind.

Emma Edwardovna shook the door by the brass knob, but the door did
not yield.

"Go after Simeon!" Anna Markovna directed.

Simeon was called ... He came, sleepy and morose, as was his wont.
By the distracted faces of the girls and the housekeepers, he
already saw that some misunderstanding or other had occurred, in
which his professional cruelty and strength were required. When
they explained to him what the matter was, he silently took the
door-knob with both hands, braced himself against the wall, and
gave a yank.

The knob remained in his hands; and he himself, staggering
backward, almost fell to the floor on his back.

"A-a, hell!" he began to growl in a stifled voice. "Give me a
table knife."

Through the crack of the door he felt the inner bolt with the
table knife; whittled away with the blade the edges of the crack,
and widened it so that he could at last push the end of the knife
through it, and began gradually to scrape back the bolt. Only the
grating of metal against metal could be heard.

Finally Simeon threw the door wide open.

Jennka was hanging in the middle of the water-closet on a tape
from her corset, fastened to the lamphook. Her body, already
motionless after an unprolonged agony, was slowly swinging in the
air, and describing scarcely perceptible turns to the right and
left around its vertical axis. Her face was bluishly-purple, and
the tip of the tongue was thrust out between clenched and bared
teeth. The lamp which had been taken off was also here, sprawling
on the floor.

Some one began to squeal hysterically, and all the girls, like a
stampeded herd, crowding and jostling each other in the narrow
corridor, vociferating and choking with hysterical sobbings,
started in to run.

The doctor came upon hearing the outcries... Came, precisely, and
not ran. Seeing what the matter was, he did not become amazed or
excited; during his practice as an official city doctor, he had
had his fill of seeing such things, so that he had already grown
benumbed and hardened to human sufferings, wounds and death. He
ordered Simeon to lift the corpse of Jennka a bit upward, and
himself getting up on the seat, cut through the tape. Proforma, he
ordered Jennka's body to be borne away into the room that had been
hers, and tried with the help of the same Simeon to produce
artificial respiration; but after five minutes gave it up as a bad
job, fixed the pince-nez, which had become crooked, on his nose,
and said:

"Call the police in to make a protocol."

Again Kerbesh came, again whispered for a long time with the
proprietress in her little bit of a cabinet, and again crunched in
his pocket a new hundred-rouble bill.

The protocol was made in five minutes; and Jennka, just as half-
naked as she had hung herself, was carted away in a hired wagon
into an anatomical theatre, wrapped up in and covered with two
straw mats.

Emma Edwardovna was the first to find the note that Jennka had
left on her night table. On a sheet, torn out of the income-
expense book, compulsory for every prostitute, in pencil, in a
naive, rounded, childish handwriting--by which, however, it could
be judged that the hands of the suicide had not trembled during
the last minutes--was written:

"I beg that no one be blamed for my death. I am dying because I
have become infected, and also because all people are scoundrels
and it is very disgusting to live. How to divide my things--Tamara
knows about that. I told her in detail."

Emma Edwardovna turned around upon Tamara, who was right on the
spot among a number of other girls, and with eyes filled with a
cold, green hatred, hissed out:

"Then you knew, you low-down thing, what she was preparing to do?
... You knew, you vermin? ... You knew and didn't tell? ..."

She already had swung back, in order, as was her wont, to hit
Tamara cruelly and calculatingly; but suddenly stopped just as she
was, with gaping mouth and with eyes wide open. It was just as
though she was seeing, for the first time, Tamara, who was looking
at her with a firm, wrathful, unbearable gaze, and slowly, slowly
was raising from below, and at last brought up to the level of the
housekeeper's face, a small object, glistening with white metal.





CHAPTER VI.


That very same day, at evening, a very important event took place
in the house of Anna Markovna: the whole institution--with land
and house, with live and inanimate stock--passed into the hands of
Emma Edwardovna.

They had been speaking of this, on and off, for a long time in the
establishment; but when the rumours so unexpectedly, immediately
right after the death of Jennka, turned into realities, the misses
could not for a long time come to themselves for amazement and
fear. They knew well, having experienced the sway of the German
upon themselves, her cruel, implacable pedantism; her greed,
arrogance, and, finally, her perverted, exacting, repulsive love,
now for one, now for another favorite. Besides that, it was no
mystery to any one, that out of the fifteen thousand which Emma
Edwardovna had to pay the former proprietress for the firm and for
the property, one third belonged to Kerbesh, who had, for a long
time already, been carrying on half-friendy, half-business
relations with the fat housekeeper. From the union of two such
people, shameless, pitiless, and covetous, the girls could expect
all sorts of disasters for themselves.

Anna Markovna had to let the house go so cheaply not simply
because Kerbesh, even if he had not known about certain shady
little transactions to her credit, could still at any time he
liked trip her up and eat her up without leaving anything. Of
pretexts and cavils for this even a hundred could be found every
day; and certain ones of them not merely threatened the shutting
down of the house alone, but, if you like, even with the court.

But, dissembling, oh-ing and sighing, bewailing her poverty, her
maladies and orphanhood, Anna Markovna at soul was glad of even
such a settlement. And then it must be said: she was already for a
long time feeling the approach of senile infirmity, together with
all sorts of ailments and the thirst for complete, benevolent
rest, undisturbed by anything. All, of which she had not even
dared dream in her early youth, when she herself had yet been a
prostitute of the rank and file--all had now come to her of
itself, one in addition to the other: peaceful old age, a house--a
brimming cup on one of the quiet, cozy streets, almost in the
centre of the city,--the adored daughter Birdie, who--if not to-
day then tomorrow--must marry a respected man, an engineer, a
house-owner, and member of the city-council; provided for as she
was with a respectable dowry and magnificent valuables ... Now it
was possible peacefully, without hurrying, with gusto, to dine and
sup on sweet things, for which Anna Markovna had always nourished
a great weakness; to drink after dinner good, home-made, strong
cherry-brandy; and of evenings to play a bit at "preference," for
kopeck stakes, with esteemed elderly ladies of her acquaintance,
who, even although they never as much as let it appear that they
knew the real trade of the little old woman, did in reality know
it very well; and not only did not condemn her business but even
bore themselves with respect toward those enormous percentages
which she earned upon her capital. And these charming friends, the
joy and consolation of an untroubled old age, were: one--the
keeper of a loan office; another--the proprietress of a lively
hotel near the railroad; the third--the owner of a jewelry shop,
not large, but all the go and well known among the big thieves,
&c. And about them, in her turn, Anna Markovna knew and could tell
several shady and not especially flattering anecdotes; but in
their society it was not customary to talk of the sources of the
family well-being--only cleverness, daring, success, and decent
manners were esteemed.

But, even besides that, Anna Markovna, sufficiently limited in
mind and not especially developed, had some sort of an amazing
inner intuition, which during all her life permitted her
instinctively but irreproachably to avoid unpleasantnesses, and to
find prudent paths in time. And so now, after the sudden death of
Roly-Poly, and the suicide of Jennka which followed the next day,
she, with her unconsciously--penetrating soul foreguessed that
fate--which had been favouring her house of ill-fame, sending her
good fortunes, turning away all under-water shoals--was now
getting ready to turn its back upon her. And she was the first to
retreat.

They say, that not long before a fire in a house, or before the
wreck of a ship, the wise, nervous rats in droves make their way
into another place. And Anna Markovna was directed by the same
rat-like, animal, prophetic intuition. And she was right:
immediately right after the death of Jennka some fearful curse
seemed to hang over the house, formerly Anna Markovna Shaibes',
but now Emma Edwardovna Titzner's: deaths, misfortunes, scandals
just simply descended upon it ceaselessly, becoming constantly
more frequent, on the manner of bloody events in Shakespeare's
tragedies; as, however, was the case at all the remaining houses
of the Yamas as well.

And one of the first to die, a week after the liquidation of the
business, was Anna Markovna herself. However, this frequently
happens with people put out of their accustomed rut of thirty
years: so die war heroes, who have gone into retirement--people of
insuperable health and iron will; so quickly go off the stage
former stock brokers, who have happily gone away to rest, but have
been deprived of the burning allurement of risk and hazard; so,
too, age rapidly, droop, and grow decrepit, the great artists who
leave the stage ... Her death was the death of the just. Once at a
game of cards she felt herself unwell; begged them to wait a while
for her; said that she would lie down for just a minute; lay down
in the bedroom on a bed; sighed deeply, and passed on into another
world--with a calm face, with a peaceful, senile smile upon her
lips. Isaiah Savvich--her faithful comrade on the path of life, a
trifle downtrodden, who had always played a secondary, subordinate
role--survived her only a month.

Birdie was left sole heiress. She very successfully turned the
cozy house into money, as well as the land somewheres at the edge
of the town; married, as it had been presupposed, very happily;
and up to this time is convinced that her father carried on a
great commercial business in the export of wheat through Odessa
and Novorossiysk into Asia Minor.

On the evening of the day when Jennie's corpse had been carried
away to an anatomical theatre; at an hour when not even a chance
guest appears on Yamskaya Street, all the girls, at the insistence
of Emma Edwardovna, assembled in the drawing room. Not one of them
dared murmur against the fact that on this distressing day, when
they had not yet recovered from the impression of Jennka's
horrible death, they would be compelled to dress up, as usual, in
wildly festive finery, and to go into the brightly illuminated
drawing room, in order to dance, sing, and to entice lecherous men
with their denuded bodies.

And at last into the drawing room walked Emma Edwardovna herself.
She was more majestic than she had ever been--clad in a black silk
gown, from which, just like battlements, her enormous breasts
jutted out, upon which descended two fat chins; in black silk
mittens; with an enormous gold chain wound thrice around her neck,
and terminating in a ponderous medallion hanging upon the very
abdomen.

"Ladies! ..." she began impressively, "I must ... Stand up!" she
suddenly called out commandingly. "When I speak, you must hear me
out standing."

They all exchanged glances with perplexity: such an order was a
novelty in the establishment. However, the girls got up one after
another, irresolutely, with eyes and mouths gasping.

"Sie sollen ... you must from this day show me that respect which
you are bound to show to your mistress," importantly and weightily
began Emma Edwardovna. "Beginning from to-day, the establishment
in a legal manner has passed from our good and respected Anna
Markovna to me, Emma Edwardovna Titzner. I hope that we will not
quarrel, and that you will behave yourselves like sensible,
obedient, and well-brought-up girls. I will be to you like in
place of your own mother, but only remember, that I will not stand
for laziness, or drunkenness, or notions of any sort; or any kind
of disorder. The kind Madam Shaibes, it must be said, held you in
too loose reins. O--o, I will be far more strict. Discipline uber
alles ... before everything. It's a great pity, that the Russian
people are lazy, dirty and stoopid, do not understand this rule;
but don't you trouble yourself, I will teach you this for your own
good. I say 'for your own good,' because my main thought is to
kill the competition of Treppel. I want that my client should be a
man of substance, and not some charlatan and ragamuffin, some kind
of student, now, or ham actor. I want that my ladies should be the
most beautiful, best brought-up, the healthiest and gayest in the
whole city. I won't spare any money in order to set up swell
furnishings; and you will have rooms with silk furniture and with
genuine, beautiful rugs. Your guests will no longer be demanding
beer, but only genteel Bordeaux and Burgundy wines and champagne.
Remember, that a rich, substantial, elderly man never likes your
common, ordinary, coarse love. He requires Cayenne pepper; he
requires not a trade, but an art, and you will soon acquire this.
At Treppel's they take three roubles for a visit and ten roubles
for a night ... I will establish it so, that you will receive five
roubles for a visit and twenty-five for a night. They will present
you with gold and diamonds. I will contrive it so, that you won't
have to pass on into establishments of a lower sort, und so weiter
... right down to the soldiers' filthy den. No! Deposits will be
put away and saved with me for each one of you every month; and
will be put away in your name in a banker's office, where there
will increase interest upon them, and interest upon interest. And
then, if a girl feels herself tired, or wants to marry a
respectable man, there will always be at her disposal not a large,
but a sure capital. So is it done in the best establishments in
Riga, and everywhere abroad. Let no one say about me, that Emma
Edwardovna is a spider, a vixen, a cupping glass. But for
disobedience, for laziness, for notions, for lovers on the side, I
will punish cruelly and, like nasty weeds, will throw out--on the
street, or still worse. Now I have said all that I had to. Nina,
come near me. And all the rest of you come up in turn."

Ninka irresolutely walked right up to Emma Edwardovna--and even
staggered back in amazement: Emma Edwardovna was extending her
right hand to her, with the fingers lowered downward, and slowly
nearing it to Ninka's lips.

"Kiss it! ..." impressively and firmly pronounced Emma Edwardovna,
narrowing her eyes and with head thrown back, in the magnificent
pose of a princess ascending her throne.

Ninka was so bewildered that her right arm gave a jerk in order to
make the sign of the cross; but she corrected herself, loudly
smacked the extended hand, and stepped aside. Following her Zoe,
Henrietta, Vanda and others stepped up also. Tamara alone
continued to stand near the wall with her back to the mirror; that
mirror into which Jennka so loved to gaze, in gone-by times,
admiring herself as she walked back and forth through the drawing
room.

Emma Edwardovna let the imperious, obstinate gaze of a boa-
constrictor rest upon her; but the hypnosis did not work. Tamara
bore this gaze without turning away, without flinching; but
without any expression on her face. Then the new proprietress put
down her hand, produced on her face something resembling a smile,
and said hoarsely:

"And with you, Tamara, I must have a little talk separately, eye
to eye. Let's go!"

"I hear you, Emma Edwardovna!" calmly answered Tamara.

Emma Edwardovna came to the little bit of a cabinet, where
formerly Anna Markovna loved to drink coffee with clotted cream;
sat down on the divan and pointed out a place opposite her to
Tamara. For some time the women kept silent; searchingly,
mistrustfully eyeing each other.

"You acted rightly, Tamara," said Emma Edwardovna finally. "You
did wisely in not stepping up, on the manner of those sheep, to
kiss my hand. But just the same, I would not have let you come to
that. I wanted right there, in the presence of all, when you
walked up to me, to press your hand and to offer you the place of
first housekeeper--you understand?--my chief assistant--and on
terms very advantageous to you ..."

"I thank you ..."

"No, wait a while, don't interrupt me. I will have my say to the
end, and then you will express your pros and cons. But will you
explain to me, please, when yesterday you were aiming at me out of
a revolver, what did you want? Can it possibly be, to kill me?"

"On the contrary, Emma Edwardovna," retorted Tamara respectfully,
"on the contrary; it seemed to me that you wanted to strike me."

"PJUI! What do you mean, Tamarochka! ... Have you paid no
attention to the fact that during all the time of our acquaintance
I never permitted myself, not only to hit you, but even to address
you with a rude word? ... What do you mean, what do you mean? ...
I don't confuse you with this poor Russian trash ... Glory be to
God, I am an experienced person and one who knows people well. I
can very well see that you are a genuinely cultured young lady;
far more educated, for example, than I myself. You are refined,
elegant, smart. I am convinced of the fact that you even know
music not at all badly. Finally, if I were to confess, I was a
little ... how shall I put it to you? ... I always was a little in
love with you. And now you wanted to shoot me! Me, a person who
could be a very good friend to you! Well, what will you say to
that?"

"Well ... nothing at all, Emma Edwardovna," retorted Tamara in the
meekest and most plausible tone. "Everything was very simple. Even
before that I found the revolver under Jennka's pillow and brought
it, in order to give it over to you. I did not want to interfere,
when you were reading the letter; but then you turned around to
me--I stretched the revolver out to you and wanted to say: 'See,
Emma Edwardovna, what I found'--for, don't you see, it surprised
me awfully how the late Jennie, having a revolver at her disposal,
preferred such a horrible death as hanging? And that's all."

The bushy, frightful eyebrows of Emma Edwardovna rose upward; the
eyes widened joyously; and a real, uncounterfeited smile spread
over her cheeks of a behemoth. She quickly extended both hands to
Tamara.

"And is this all? O, MEIN KIND? And I thought ... God knows what I
imagined! Give me your hands, Tamara, your little charming white
hands, and allow me to press them auf mein Herz, upon my heart,
and to kiss you."

The kiss was so long, that Tamara with great difficulty and with
aversion barely freed herself from the embraces of Emma
Edwardovna.

"Well, and now to business. And so, here are my terms: you will be
housekeeper, I give you fifteen percent, out of the clear gain.
Mind you, Tamara, fifteen percent. And, besides that, a small
salary--thirty, forty, well, if you like, fifty roubles a month.
Splendid terms--isn't that the truth? I am deeply convinced, that
none other than just you will help me to raise the house to a real
height, and make it the swellest not only in our city, but in all
the south of Russia as well. You have taste, and an understanding
of things! ... Besides that, you will always be able to entertain,
and to stir up the most exacting, the most unyielding guests. In
rare instances, when a very rich and distinguished gentleman--in
Russian they call it one "sun-fish," while with us, ein
Freier,[Footnote: In English, a "toff"; in American, a "swell."--
trans.]--when he becomes infatuated with you--for you are so
handsome, Tamarochka," (the proprietress looked at her with misty,
humid eyes), "then I do not at all forbid you to pass the time
with him gaily; only to bear down always upon the fact that you
have no right, owing to your duty, your position, Und so weiter,
und so weiter ... aber sagen sie bitte, do you easily make
yourself understood in German?"

"Die Deutsche Sprache beherrsche ich in geringerem Grade als die
franzosische; indes kann ich stets in einer Salon-Plauderei
mitmachen." [Footnote: "My mastery of the German language is a
trifle worse than that of the French, but I can always keep up my
end in parlor small talk."]

"O, wunderbar! sie haben eine entzuckende Rigaer Aussprache, die
beste alter deutschen Aussprachen. Und also--fahren wir in unserer
Sprache fort. Sie klingt viel susser meinem Ohr, die
Muttersprache. Schon? [Footnote: O, splendid! ... You have a
bewitching Riga enunciation, the most correct of all the German
ones. And so, let us continue in my tongue. That is far sweeter to
my ear--my mother tongue. All right?"]

 "SCHON." [Footnote: "All right."]

"Zuletzt werden Sie nachgeben, dem Anschein nach ungern,
unwillkurlich, van der Laune des Augenblicks hingerissen--und, was
die Hauptsache ist, lautlos, heimlich vor mir. Sie verstehen?
Dafur zahlen Narren ein schweres Geld. Ubrigens brauche ich Sie
wohl nicht zu lernen." [Footnote: "In the very end you will give
in, as though unwillingly, as though against your will, as though
from infatuation, a momentary caprice, and--which is the main
thing--as though on the sly from me. You understand? For this the
fools pay enormous money. However, it seems I will not have to
teach you."]

"Ja, gnadige Frau. Sie sprechen gar kluge Dinge. Doch das ist
schon keine Plauderei mehr, sondern eine ernste unterhaltung.
"Yes, my dear madam. You say very wise things. But this is no
longer small talk; it is, rather, serious conversation ... And for
that reason it is more convenient for me, if you will revert to
the Russian language ... I am ready to obey you."

"Furthermore! ... I was just now talking about a lover. I dare not
forbid you this pleasure, but let us be prudent: let him not
appear here, or appear as rarely as possible. I will give you days
for going out, when you will be perfectly free. But it's best if
you would get along without him entirely. It will serve your
benefit too. This is only a drag and a yoke. I am telling you this
from my own personal experience. Wait a while; after three or four
years we will expand this business so, that you will have
substantial money already, and then I vill take you into the
business as a partner with full rights. After ten years you will
still be young and handsome, and then take and buy men as much as
you want to. By that time romantic follies will go out of your
head entirely, and it will not be you who will be chosen already,
but you who will be choosing with sense and with feeling, as a
connoisseur picks out precious stones. Do you agree with me?"

Tamara cast down her eyes, and smiled just the least trifle.

"You speak golden truths, Emma Edwardovna. I will drop mine, but
not at once. For that I will need some two weeks. I will try not
to have him appear here. I accept your proposition."

"And that's splendid!" said Emma Edwardovna, get ting up. "Now let
us conclude our agreement with one good, sweet kiss."

And she again embraced and took to kissing Tamara hard; who, with
her downcast eyes and naive, tender face, seemed now altogether a
little girl. But, having freed herself, finally, from the
proprietress, she asked in Russian:

"You see, Emma Edwardovna, that I agree in everything with you,
but for that I beg you to fulfill one request of mine. It will not
cost you anything. Namely, I hope that you will allow me and the
other girls to escort the late Jennie to the cemetery."

Emma Edwardovna made a wry face.

"Oh, if you want to, my darling Tamara, I have nothing against
your whim. Only what for? This will not help the dead person and
will not make her alive. Only sentimentalism alone will come out
of it ... But very well! Only, however, you know yourself that in
accordance with your law suicides are not buried, or--I don't know
with certainty--it seems they throw them into some dirty hole
beyond the cemetery."

"No, do allow me to do as I want to myself. Let it be my whim, but
concede it to me, my darling, dear, bewitching Emma Edwardovna!
But then, I promise you that this will be my last whim. After this
I will be like a wise and obedient soldier at the disposal of a
talented general."

"IS' GUT!" Emma Edwardovna gave in with a sigh. "I can not deny
you in anything, my child. Let me press your hand. Let us toil and
labour together for the common good."

And, having opened the door, she called out across the drawing
room into the entrance-hall: "Simeon!" And when Simeon appeared in
the room, she ordered him weightily and triumphantly:

"Bring us a bottle of champagne here, but the real thing--Rederer
demi sec, and as cool as possible. Step lively!" she ordered the
porter, who was gaping at her with popping eyes. "We will drink
with you, Tamara, to the new business, to our brilliant and
beautiful future."

They say that dead people bring luck. If there is any foundation
at all in this superstition, then on this Saturday it could not
have told plainer: the influx of visitors was out of the ordinary,
even for a Saturday night. True, the girls, passing through the
corridor or past the room that had been Jennka's increased their
steps; timorously glanced at it sidelong, out of the corner of the
eye; while others even crossed themselves. But late in the night
the fear of death somehow subsided, grew bearable. All the rooms
were occupied, while in the drawing room a new violinist was
trilling without cease--a free-and-easy, clean-shaven young man,
whom the pianist with the cataract had searched out somewhere and
brought with him.

The appointment of Tamara as housekeeper was received with cold
perplexity, with taciturn dryness. But, having bided her time,
Tamara managed to whisper to Little White Manka:

"Listen, Manya! You tell them all that they shouldn't pay any
attention to the fact that I've been chosen housekeeper. It's got
to be so. But let them do as they wish, only don't let them trip
me up. I am as before--their friend and intercessor ... And
further on we'll see."





CHAPTER VII.


On the next day, on Sunday, Tamara had a multitude of cares. She
had become possessed by a firm and undeviating thought to bury her
friend despite all circumstances, in the way that nearest friends
are buried--in a Christian manner, with all the sad solemnity of
the burial of secular persons.

She belonged to the number of those strange persons who underneath
an external indolent calmness, careless taciturnity, egotistical
withdrawal into one's self, conceal within them unusual energy;
always as though slumbering with half an eye, guarding itself from
unnecessary expenditure; but ready in one moment to become
animated and to rush forward without reckoning the obstacles.

At twelve o'clock she descended in a cab into the old town; rode
through it into a little narrow street giving out upon a square
where fairs were held; and stopped near a rather dirty tea-room,
having ordered the cabby to wait. In the room she made inquiries
of a boy, red-haired, with a badger hair-cut and the parting
slicked down with butter, if Senka the Depot had not come here?
The serving lad, who, judging by his refined and gallant
readiness, had already known Tamara for a long time, answered that
"Nohow, ma'am; they--Semen Ignatich--had not been in yet, and
probably would not be here soon seein' as how yesterday they had
the pleasure of going on a spree at the Transvaal, and had played
at billiards until six in the morning; and that now they, in all
probabilities, are at home, in the Half Way House rooms, and if
the young lady will give the word, then it's possible to hop over
to them this here minute."

Tamara asked for paper and pencil, and wrote a few words right on
the spot. Then she gave the note to the waiter, together with a
half-rouble piece for a tip, and rode away.

The following visit was to the artiste Rovinskaya, living, as
Tamara had known even before, in the city's most aristocratic
hotel--Europe--where she occupied several rooms in a consecutive
suite. To obtain an interview with the singer was not very easy:
the doorman below said that it looked as if Ellena Victorovna was
not at home; while her own personal maid, who came out in answer
to Tamara's knocking, declared that madam had a headache, and that
she was not receiving any one. Again Tamara was compelled to write
on a piece of paper:

"I come to you from her who once, in a house which is not spoken
of loudly, cried, standing before you on her knees, after you had
sung the ballad of Dargomyzhsky. Your kind treatment of her was so
splendid. Do you remember? Do not fear--she has no need of any
one's help now: yesterday she died. But you can do one very
important deed in her memory, which will be almost no trouble to
you at all. While I--am that very person who permitted herself to
say a few bitter truths to the baroness T--, who was then with
you; for which truths I am remorseful and apologize even now."

"Hand this over!" she ordered the chambermaid.

She returned after two minutes.

"The madam requests you. They apologize very much that they will
receive you not fully dressed."

She escorted Tamara, opened a door before her and quietly shut it.

The great artiste was lying upon an enormous ottoman, covered with
a beautiful Tekin rug and a multitude of little silk pillows, and
soft cylindrical bolsters of tapestry. Her feet were wrapped up in
silvery, soft fur. Her fingers, as usual, were adorned by a
multiplicity of rings with emeralds, attracting the eyes by their
deep and tender green.

The artiste was having one of her evil, black days to-day.
Yesterday morning some misunderstandings with the management had
arisen; while in the evening the public had received her not as
triumphantly as she would have desired, or, perhaps, this had
simply appeared so to her; while to-day in the newspaper the fool
of a reviewer, who understood just as much of art as a cow does of
astronomy, had praised up her rival, Titanova, in a big article.
And so Ellena Victorovna had persuaded herself that her head was
aching; that there was a nervous tic in her temples; and that her
heart, time and again, seemed suddenly to fall through somewheres.

"How do you do, my dear!" she said, a trifle nasally, in a weak,
wan voice, with pauses, as heroines on the stage speak when dying
from love and from consumption. "Sit down here ... I am glad to
see you ... Only don't be angry--I am almost dying from migraine,
and from my miserable heart. Pardon my speaking with difficulty. I
think I sang too much and tired my voice ..."

Rovinskaya, of course, had recalled both the mad escapade of that
evening; and the striking, unforgettable face of Tamara; but now,
in a bad mood, in the wearisome, prosaic light of an autumn day,
this adventure appeared to her as unnecessary bravado; something
artificial, imagined, and poignantly shameful. But she was equally
sincere on that strange, night-marish evening when she, through
the might of talent, had prostrated the proud Jennka at her feet,
as well as now, when she recalled it with fatigue, indolence, and
artistic disdain. She, as well as many distinguished artists, was
always playing a role; was always not her own self, and always
regarded her words, movements, actions, as though looking at
herself from a distance with the eyes and feelings of the
spectators.

She languidly raised from the pillow her narrow, slender,
beautiful hand, and applied it to her forehead; and the
mysterious, deep emeralds stirred as though alive and began to
flash with a warm, deep sparkle.

"I just read in your note that this poor ... pardon me, her name
has vanished out of my head..."

"Jennie."

"Yes, yes, thank you! I recall it now. She died? But from what?"

"She hanged herself ... yesterday morning, during the doctor's
inspection..."

The eyes of the artiste, so listless, seemingly faded, suddenly
opened, and, as through a miracle, grew animated and became
shining and green, just like her emeralds; and in them were
reflected curiosity, fear and aversion.

"Oh, my God! Such a dear, so original, handsome, so fiery ... Oh,
the poor, poor soul! ... And the reason for this was? ..."

"You know ... the disease. She told you."

"Yes, yes ... I remember, I remember ... But to hang one's self!
... What horror! ... Why, I advised her to treat herself then.
Medicine works miracles now. I myself know several people who
absolutely ... well, absolutely cured themselves. Everybody in
society knows this and receives them ... Ah, the poor little
thing, the poor little thing! ..."

"And so I've come to you, Ellena Victorovna. I wouldn't have dared
to disturb you, but I seem to be in a forest, and have no one to
turn to. You were so kind then, so touchingly attentive, so tender
to us ... I need only your advice and, perhaps, a little of your
influence, your protection..."

"Oh, please, my dear! ... All I can do, I will ... Oh, my poor
head! And then this horrible news. Tell me, in what way can I be
of assistance to you?"

"To confess, I don't know even myself yet," answered Tamara. "You
see, they carried her away to an anatomical theatre ... But until
they had made the protocol, until they made the journey--then the
time for receiving had gone by also--in general I think that they
have not had a chance to dissect her yet ... I'd like, if it's
only possible, that she should not be touched. To-day is Sunday;
perhaps they'll postpone it until to-morrow, and in the meanwhile
something may be done for her..."

"I can't tell you, dear ... Wait! ... Haven't I some friend among
the professors, in the medical world? ... I will look later in my
memo-books. Perhaps we will succeed in doing something."

"Besides that," continued Tamara, "I want to bury her ... At my
expense ... I was attached to her with all my heart during her
life."

"I will help you with pleasure in this, materially..."

"No, no! ... A thousand thanks! ... I'll do everything myself. I
would not hesitate to have recourse to your kind heart, but this
... --you will understand me-- ... this is something in the nature
of a vow, that a person gives to one's self and to the memory of a
friend. The main difficulty is in how we may manage to bury her
with Christian rites. She was, it seems, an unbeliever, or
believed altogether poorly. And it's only by chance that I, also,
will cross my forehead. But I don't want them to bury her just
like a dog, somewhere beyond the enclosure of the cemetery; in
silence, without words, without singing ... I don't know, will
they permit burying her properly--with choristers, with priests?
For that reason I'm asking you to assist me with your advice. Or,
perhaps, you will direct me somewhere? ..."

Now the artiste had little by little become interested and was
already beginning to forget about her fatigue, and migraine, and
the consumptive heroine dying in the fourth act. She was already
picturing the role of an intercessor, the beautiful figure of
genius merciful to a fallen woman. This was original, extravagant,
and at the same time so theatrically touching! Rovinskaya, like
many of her confreres, did not let one day pass by--and, if it
were possible, she would not have let pass even one hour--without
standing out from the crowd, without compelling people to talk
about her: to-day she would participate in a pseudo-patriotic
manifestation, while to-morrow she would read from a platform, for
the benefit of revolutionaries exiled to Siberia, inciting verses,
full of fire and vengeance. She loved to sell flowers at
carnivals, in riding academies; and to sell champagne at large
balls. She would think up her little bon mots beforehand, which on
the morrow would be caught up by the whole town. She desired that
everywhere and always the crowd should look only at her, repeat
her name, love her Egyptian, green eyes, her rapacious and
sensuous mouth; her emeralds on the slender and nervous hands.

"I can't grasp it all properly at once," said she after a silence.
"But if a person wants anything hard, he will attain it, and I
want to fulfill your wish with all my soul. Stay, stay! ... I
think a glorious thought is coming into my head ... For then, on
that evening, if I mistake not, there was with us, beside the
baroness and me..."

"I don't know them ... One of them walked out of the cabinet later
than all of you. He kissed Jennie's hand and said, that if she
should ever need him, he was always at her service; and gave her
his card, but asked her not to show it to any strangers. But later
all this passed off somehow and was forgotten. In some way I never
found the time to ask Jennie who this man was; while yesterday I
searched for the card but couldn't find it..."

"Allow me, allow me! ... I have recalled it!" the artiste suddenly
became animated. "Aha!" exclaimed she, rapidly getting off the
ottoman. "It was Ryazanov... Yes, yes, yes... The advocate Ernst
Andreievich Ryazanov. We will arrange everything right away.
That's a splendid thought!"

She turned to the little table upon which the telephone apparatus
was standing, and rang:

"Central--l8-35 please ... Thank you ... Hello! ... Ask Ernst
Andreievich to the telephone ... The artiste Rovinskaya ... Thank
you ... Hello! ... Is this you, Ernst Andreievich? Very well, very
well, but now it isn't a matter of little hands. Are you free? ...
Drop the nonsense! ... The matter is serious. Couldn't you come up
to me for a quarter of an hour? ...No, no ... Yes ... Only as a
kind and a clever man. You slander yourself ... Well, that's
splendid, really ... Well, I am not especially well-dressed, but I
have a justification--a fearful headache. No, a lady, a girl ...
You will see for yourself, come as soon as possible ... Thanks! Au
revior! ..."

"He will come right away," said Rovinskaya, hanging up the
receiver. "He is a charming and awfully clever man. Everything is
possible to him, even the almost impossible to man ... But in the
meantime ... pardon me--your name?"

Tamara was abashed, but then smiled at herself:

"Oh, it isn't worth your disturbing yourself, Ellena Victorovna!
Mon nomme de guerre is Tamara but just so--Anastasia Nikolaevna.
It's all the same--call me even Tamara ... I am more used to
it..."

"Tamara! ... That is so beautiful! ... So now, Mile. Tamara,
perhaps you will not refuse to breakfast with me? Perhaps Ryazanov
will also do so with us..."

"I have no time, forgive me."

"That's a great pity! ... I hope, some other time ... But, perhaps
you smoke," and she moved toward her a gold case, adorned with an
enormous letter E out of the same emeralds she adored.

Ryazanov came very soon.

Tamara, who had not examined him properly on that evening, was
struck by his appearance. Tall of stature, almost of an athletic
build, with a broad brow, like Beethoven's, tangled with
artistically negligent black, grizzled hair; with the large fleshy
mouth of the passionate orator; with clear, expressive, clever,
mocking eyes--he had such an appearance as catches one's eyes
among thousands--the appearance of a vanquisher of souls and a
conqueror of hearts; deeply ambitious, not yet oversated with
life; still fiery in love and never retreating before a beautiful
indiscretion ... "If fate had not broken me up so," reflected
Tamara, watching his movements with enjoyment, "then here's a man
to whom I'd throw my life; jestingly, with delight, with a smile,
as a plucked rose is thrown to the beloved..."

Ryazanov kissed Rovinskaya's hand, then with unconstrained
simplicity exchanged greetings with Tamara and said:

"We are acquainted even from that mad evening, when you
dumbfounded all of us with your knowledge of the French language,
and when you spoke. That which you said was, between us,
paradoxical; but then, how it was said! ... To this day I remember
the tone of your voice, so warm, expressive ... And so, Ellena
Victorovna," he turned to Rovinskaya again, sitting down on a
small, low chair without a back, "in what can I be of use to you?
I am at your disposal."

Rovinskaya, with a languid air, again applied the tips of her
fingers to her temples.

"Ah, really, I am so upset, my dear Ryazanov," said she,
intentionally extinguishing the sparkle of her magnificent eyes,
"and then, my miserable head ... May I trouble you to pass me the
pyramidon what-not from that table ... Let Mile. Tamara tell you
everything ... I can not, I am not able to ... This is so
horrible! ..."

Tamara briefly, lucidly, narrated to Ryazanov all the sad history
of Jennka's death; recalled also about the card left with Jennie;
and also how the deceased had reverently preserved this card; and
--in passing--about his promise to help in case of need.

"Of course, of course!" exclaimed Ryanzanov, when she had
finished; and at once began pacing the room back and forth with
big steps, ruffling and tossing back his picturesque hair through
habit. "You are performing a magnificent, sincere, comradely
action! That is good! ... That is very good! ... I am yours ...
You say--a permit for the funeral ... Hm ... God grant me memory!
..."

He rubbed his forehead with his palm.

"Hm ... hm ... If I'm not mistaken--Monocanon, rule one hundred
seventy ... one hundred seventy ... eight ... Pardon me, I think I
remember it by heart ... Pardon me! ... Yes, so! 'If a man slayeth
himself, he shall not be chanted over, nor shall a mass be said
for him, unless he were greatly astonied, that is, to wit, out of
his mind'... Hm ... See St. Timothy Alexandrine ... And so, my
dear miss, the first thing ... You say, that she was taken down
from the noose by your doctor--i.e., the official city doctor ...
His name? ..."

"Klimenko."

"It seems I've met him somewheres ... All right ... Who is the
district inspector in your precinct station?"

"Kerbesh."

"Aha, I know ... Such a strong, virile fellow, with a red beard in
a fan ... Yes?"

"Yes, that is he."

"I know him very well! There, now, is somebody that a sentence to
hard labour is hankering after ... Some ten times he fell into my
hands; and always, the skunk, gave me the slip somehow. Slippery,
just like an eel-pout ... We will have to slip him a little
present. Well, now! And then the anatomical theatre ... When do
you want to bury her?"

"Really, I don't know ... I would like to do it as soon as
possible ... if possible, to-day."

"Hm ... To-day ... I don't vouch for it--we will hardly manage it
... But here is my memorandum book. Well, take even this page,
where are my friends under the letter T--just write the very same
way: Tamara, and your address. In two hours I will give you an
answer. Does that suit you? But I repeat again, that probably you
will have to postpone the burial till to-morrow ... Then--pardon
my unceremoniousness--is money needed, perhaps?"

"No, thank you!" refused Tamara. "I have money. Thanks for your
interest! ... It's time for me to be going. I thank you with all
my heart, Ellen Victorovna! ..."

"Then expect it in two hours," repeated Ryazanov, escorting her to
the door.

Tamara did not at once ride away to the house. She turned into a
little coffee-house on Catholicheskaya Street on the way. There
Senka the Depot was waiting for her--a gay fellow with the
appearance of a handsome Tzigan; not black--but blue-haired;
black-eyed, with yellow whites; resolute and daring in his work;
the pride of local thieves--a great celebrity in their world, the
first leader of experience, and a constant, all-night gamester.

He stretched out his hand to her, without getting up. But in the
way in which he so carefully, with a certain force, seated her in
her place could be seen a broad, good-natured endearment.

"How do you do, Tamarochka! Haven't seen you in a long time--I
grew weary ... Do you want coffee?"

"No! Business first ... To-morrow we bury Jennka ... She hanged
herself..." "Yes, I read it in a newspaper," carelessly drawled
out Senka through his teeth. "What's the odds? ..."

"Get fifty roubles for me at once."

"Tamarochka, my sweetheart--I haven't a kopeck! ..."

"I'm telling you--get them!" ordered Tamara, imperiously, but
without getting angry.

"Oh, my Lord! ... Yours, now, I didn't touch, like I promised; but
then, it's Sunday ... The savings banks are closed..."

"Let them! ... Hock the savings book! In general, it's up to you!"

"Why do you need this, my dearie?"

"Isn't it all the same to you, you fool? ... For the funeral."

"Oh! Well, all right then!" sighed Senka. "Then I'd best bring it
to you myself in the evening ... Right, Tamarochka? ... It's so
very hard for me to stand it without you! Oh, my dearie, how I'd
kiss and kiss you; I wouldn't let you close your eyes! ... Shan't
I come? ..."

"No, no! ... You do as I ask you, Senechka ... Give in to me. But
you mustn't come--I'm housekeeper now."

"Well, what d'you know about that! ..." drawled out the astonished
Senka and even whistled.

"Yes. And don't you come to me in the meantime. But afterwards,
afterwards, sweetheart, whatever you desire ... There will be an
end to everything soon!"

"Oh, if you wouldn't make me suffer so! Wind things up as soon as
you can!"

"And I will wind 'em up! Wait one little week more, dearie! Did
you get the powders?"

"The powders are a trifle!" discontentedly answered Senka. "And it
isn't powders at all, but pills."

"And you're sure when you say that they'll dissolve at once in
water?"

"Sure, I saw it myself."

"But he won't die? Listen, Senya: he won't die? Is that right?
..."

"Nothing will happen to him ... He'll only snooze for a while ...
Oh, Tamara!" exclaimed he in a passionate whisper; and even
suddenly stretched himself hard from an unbearable emotion, so
that his joints cracked. "Finish it, for God's sake, as soon as
possible! ... Let's do the trick and--bye-bye! Wherever you want
to go to, sweet-heart! I am all at your will: if you want to, we
start off for Odessa; if you want to--abroad. Finish it up as soon
as possible! ..."

"Soon, soon..."

"You just wink at me, and I'm all ready ... with powders, with
instruments, with passports ... And then--choo-choo! The machine
is off! Tamarochka! My angel! ... My precious, my sparkler! ..."

And he, always restrained, having forgotten that he could be seen
by strangers, already wanted to embrace and hug Tamara to himself.

"Now, now! ... rapidly and deftly, like a cat, Tamara jumped off
the chair. "Afterwards ... afterwards, Senechka, afterwards,
little dearie! ... I'll be all yours--there won't be any denial,
nor forbiddance. I'll myself make you weary of me ... Good-bye, my
little silly!"

And with a quick movement of her hand having rumpled up his black
curls, she hastily went out of the coffee-house.





CHAPTER VIII.


On the next day, on Monday, toward ten o'clock in the morning,
almost all the inmates of the house--formerly Madam Shaibes', but
now Emma Edwardovna Titzner's--rode off in cabs to the centre of
the city, to the anatomical theatre--all, except the far-sighted,
much-experienced Henrietta; the cowardly and insensible Ninka; and
the feeble-minded Pashka, who for two days now had not gotten up
from her bed, kept silent, and to questions directed at her
answered by a beatific, idiotical smile and with some sort of
inarticulate animal lowing. If she were not given to eat, she
would not even ask; but if food were brought, she would eat with
greediness, right with her hands. She became so slovenly and
forgetful, that it was necessary to remind her of certain
necessary functions in order to avoid unpleasantness. Emma
Edwardovna did not send out Pashka to her steady guests, who asked
for Pashka every day. Even before, she had had such periods of a
detriment of consciousness; however, they had not lasted long, and
Emma Edwardovna in any case determined to tide it over: Pashka was
a veritable treasure for the establishment, and its truly horrible
victim.

The anatomical theatre represented a long, one-storied, dark-gray
building, with white frames around the windows and doors. There
was in its very exterior something low, pressed down, receding
into the ground, almost weird. The girls one after the other
stopped near the gates and timidly passed through the yard into
the chapel; nestled down at the other end of the yard, in a
corner, painted over in the same dark gray colour, with white
frame-work.

The door was locked. It was necessary to go after the watchman.
Tamara with difficulty sought out a bald, ancient old man, grown
over as though with bog moss by entangled gray bristles; with
little rheumy eyes and an enormous, reddish, dark-blue granulous
nose, on the manner of a cookie.

He unlocked the enormous hanging lock, pushed away the bolt and
opened the rusty, singing door. The cold, damp air together with
the mixed smell of the dampness of stones, frankincense, and dead
flesh breathed upon the girls. They fell back, huddling closely
into a timorous flock. Tamara alone went after the watchman
without wavering.

It was almost dark in the chapel. The autumn light penetrated
scantily through the little, narrow prison-like window, barred
with an iron grating. Two or three images without chasubles, dark
and without visages, hung upon the walls. Several common board
coffins were standing right on the floor, upon wooden carrying
shafts. One in the middle was empty, and the taken-off lid was
lying alongside.

"What sort is yours, now?" asked the watchman hoarsely and took
some snuff. "Do you know her face or not?"

"I know her."

"Well, then, look! I'll show them all to you. Maybe this one? ..."

And he took the lid off one of the coffins, not yet fastened down
with nails. A wrinkled old woman, dressed any old way in her
tatters, with a swollen blue face, was lying there. Her left eye
was closed; while the right was staring and gazing immovably and
frightfully, having already lost its sparkle and resembling mica
that had lain for a long time.

"Not this one, you say? Well, look ... Here's more for you!" said
the watchman; and one after the other, opening the lids, exhibited
the decedents--all, probably, the poorest of the poor: picked up
on the streets, intoxicated, crushed, maimed and mutilated,
beginning to decompose. Certain ones had already begun to show on
their hands and faces bluish-green spots, resembling mould--signs
of putrefaction. One man, without a nose, with an upper hare-lip
cloven in two, had worms, like little white dots, swarming upon
his sore-eaten face. A woman who had died from hydropsy, reared
like a whole mountain from her board couch, bulging out the lid.

All of them had been hastily sewn up after autopsy, repaired, and
washed by the moss-covered watchman and his mates. What affair was
it of theirs if, at times, the brain got into the stomach; while
the skull was stuffed with the liver and rudely joined with the
help of sticking plaster to the head? The watchmen had grown used
to everything during their night-marish, unlikely, drunken life;
and, by the bye, almost never did their voiceless clients prove to
have either relatives or acquaintances...

A heavy odour of carrion--thick, cloying, and so viscid that to
Tamara it seemed as though it was covering all the living pores of
her body just like glue--stood in the chapel.

"Listen, watchman," asked Tamara, "what's this crackling under my
feet all the time?"

"Crack-ling?" the watchman questioned her over again, and
scratched himself, "why, lice, it must be," he said indifferently.
"It's fierce how these beasties do multiply on the corpseses! ...
But who you lookin' for--man or woman?"

"A woman," answered Tamara.

"And that means that all these ain't yours?"

"No, they're all strangers."

"There, now! ... That means I have to go to the morgue. When did
they bring her, now?"

"On Saturday, grandpa," and Tamara at this got out her purse.
"Saturday, in the daytime. There's something for tobacco for you,
my dear sir!"

"That's the way! Saturday, you say in the daytime? And what did
she have on?"

"Well, almost nothing; a little night blouse, an underskirt ...
both the one and the other white."

"So-o! That must be number two hundred and seventeen ... How is
she called, now? ..."

"Susannah Raitzina."

"I'll go and see--maybe she's there. Well, now, mam'selles," he
turned to the young ladies, who were dully huddling in the
doorway, obstructing the light. "Which of you are the braver? If
your friend came the day before yesterday, then that means that
she's now lying in the manner that the Lord God has created all
mankind--that is, without anything ... Well, who of you will be
the bolder? Which two of you will come? She's got to be
dressed..."

"Well, now, you go, Manka," Tamara ordered her mate, who, grown
chill and pale from horror and aversion, was staring at the dead
with widely open, limpid eyes. "Don't be afraid, you fool--I'll go
with you! Who's to go, if not you?

"Well, am I ... well, am I? ..." babbled Little White Manka with
barely moving lips. "Let's go. It's all the same to me..."

The morgue was right here, behind the chapel--a low, already
entirely dark basement, into which one had to descend by six
steps.

The watchman ran off somewhere, and returned with a candle-end and
a tattered book. When he had lit the candle, the girls saw a score
of corpses that were lying directly on the stone floor in regular
rows--extended, yellow, with faces distorted by pre-mortal
convulsions, with skulls split open, with clots of blood on their
faces, with grinning teeth.

"Right away ... right away..." the watchman was saying, guiding
his finger over the headings. "The day before yesterday ... that
means, on Saturday ... on Saturday ... What did you say her name
was, now?"

"Raitzina, Susannah," answered Tamara.

"Rai-tzina Susannah ..." said the watchman, just as though he were
singing, "Raitzina, Susannah. Just as I said. Two hundred
seventeen." Bending over the dead and illuminating them with the
guttered and dripping candle-end, he passed from one to another.
Finally he stopped before a corpse, upon whose foot was written in
ink, in large black figures: 217.

"Here's the very same one! Let me, I'll carry her out into the
little corridor and run after her stuff ... Wait a while! ..."

Grunting, but still with an ease amazing in one of his age, he
lifted up the corpse of Jennka by the feet, and threw it upon his
back with the head down, as though it were a carcass of meat, or a
bag of potatoes.

It was a trifle lighter in the corridor; and, when the watchman
had lowered his horrible burden to the floor, Tamara for a moment
covered her face with her hands, while Manka turned away and began
to cry.

"If you need anything, say so," the watchman was instructing them.
"If you want to dress the deceased as is fitting, then we can get
everything that's required--cloth of gold, a little wreath, a
little image, a shroud, gauze--we keep everything ... You can buy a
thing or two in, clothing ... Slippers, too, now..."

Tamara gave him money and went out into the air, letting Manka go
in front of her.

After some time two wreaths were brought; one from Tamara, of
asters and georginas with an inscription in black letters upon a
white ribbon: "To Jennie from a friend;" the other was from
Ryazanov, all of red flowers; upon its red ribbon stood in gold
characters: "Through suffering shall we be purified." He also sent
a short little note, expressing commiseration and apologizing for
not being able to come, as he was occupied with an undeferrable
business meeting.

Then came the singers who had been invited by Tamara--fifteen men
from the very best choir in the city.

The precentor, in a gray overcoat and a gray hat, all gray,
somehow, as though covered with dust, but with long, straight
moustaches, like a military person's, recognized Verka; opened his
eyes wide in astonishment, smiled slightly and winked at her. Two
or three times a month, and sometimes even oftener, he visited
Yamskaya Street with ecclesiastical academicians of his
acquaintance, just the same precentors as he, and some psalmists;
and having usually made a full review of all the establishments,
always wound up with the house of Anna Markovna, where he
invariably chose Verka.

He was a merry and sprightly man; danced in a lively manner, in a
frenzy; and executed such figures during the dances that all those
present just melted from laughter.

Following the singers came the two-horsed catafalque, that Tamara
had hired; black, with white plumes, and seven torch-bearers along
with it. They also brought a white, glazed brocade coffin; and a
pedestal for it, stretched over with black calico. Without
hurrying, with habitually deft movements, they put away the
deceased into the coffin; covered her face with gauze; curtained
off the corpse with cloth of gold, and lit the candles--one at the
head and two at the feet.

Now, in the yellow, trembling light of the candles, the face of
Jennka became more clearly visible. The lividness had almost gone
off it, remaining only here and there on the temples, on the nose,
and between the eyes, in party-coloured, uneven, serpentine spots.
Between the parted dark lips slightly glimmered the whiteness of
the teeth, and the tip of the bitten tongue was still visible. Out
of the open collar of the neck, which had taken on the colour of
old parchment, showed two stripes: one dark--the mark of the rope;
another red--the sign of the scratch, inflicted by Simeon during
the encounter--just like two fearful necklaces. Tamara approached
and with a safety pin pinned together the lace on the collar, at
the very chin.

The clergy came: a little gray priest in gold spectacles, in a
skull-cap; a lanky, tall, thin-haired deacon with a sickly,
strangely dark and yellow face, as though of terra-cotta; and a
sprightly, long-skirted psalmist, animatedly exchanging on his way
some gay, mysterious signs with his friends among the singers.

Tamara walked up to the priest:

"Father," she asked, "how will you perform the funeral service;
all together or each one separate?"

"We perform the funeral service for all of them conjointly,"
answered the priest, kissing the stole, and extricating his beard
and hair out of its slits. "Usually, that is. But by special
request, and by special agreement, it's also possible to do it
separately. What death did the deceased undergo?"

"She's a suicide, father."

"Hm ... a suicide? ... But do you know, young person, that by the
canons of the church there isn't supposed to be any funeral
service ... there ought not to be any? Of course, there are
exceptions--by special intercession..."

"Right here, father, I have certificates from the police and from
the doctor ... She wasn't in her right mind ... in a fit of
insanity..."

Tamara extended to the priest two papers, sent her the evening
before by Ryazanov, and on top of them three bank-notes of ten
roubles each. "I would beg of you, father, to do everything
fitting--Christian like. She was a splendid being, and suffered a
very great deal. And won't you be so kind--go along with her to
the cemetery, and there hold one more little mass..."

"It's all right for me to go along with her to the cemetery, but
in the cemetery itself I have no right to hold service--there is a
clergy of their own ... And also here's how, young person; in view
of the fact that I'll have to return once more after the rest,
won't you, now ... add another little ten-spot."

And having taken the money from Tamara's hand, the priest blessed
the thurible, which had been brought up by the psalmist, and began
to walk around the body of the deceased with thurification. Then,
having stopped at her head, he in a meek, wontedly sad voice,
uttered:

"Blessed is our God. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever
shall be, world without end!"

The psalmist began pattering: Holy God, Most Holy Trinity and Our
Father poured out like peas.

Quietly, as though confiding some deep, sad, occult mystery, the
singers began in a rapid, sweet recitative: "With Thy blessed
saints in glory everlasting, the soul of this Thy servant save,
set at rest; preserving her in the blessed life, as Thou hast
loving kindness for man."

The psalmist distributed the candles; and they with warm, soft,
living little flames, one after the other, were lit in the heavy,
murky air, tenderly and transparently illuminating the faces of
the women.

Harmoniously the mournful melody flowed forth, and like the sighs
of aggrieved angels sounded the great words:

"Rest, oh God, this Thy servant and establish her in Heaven,
wherein the faces of the just and the saints of the Lord shine
like unto lights; set at rest this Thy servant who hath fallen
asleep, contemning all her trespasses."

Tamara was listening intently to the long familiar, but now long
unheard words, and was smiling bitterly. The passionate, mad words
of Jennka came back to her, full of such inescapable despair and
unbelief ... Would the all-merciful, all-gracious Lord forgive or
would He not forgive her foul, fumy, embittered, unclean life?
All-Knowing--can it be that Thou wouldst repulse her--the pitiful
rebel, the involuntary libertine; a child that had uttered
blasphemies against Thy radiant, holy name? Thou--Benevolence,
Thou--our Consolation!

A dull, restrained wailing, suddenly passing into a scream,
resounded in the chapel. "Oh, Jennechka!" This was Little White
Manka, standing on her knees and stuffing her mouth with her
handkerchief, beating about in tears. And the remaining mates,
following her, also got down upon their knees; and the chapel was
filled with sighs, stifled lamentations and sobbings ...

"Thou alone art deathless, Who hast created and made man; out of
the dust of the earth were we made, and unto the same dust shall
we return; as Thou hast ordained me, creating me and saying unto
me, dust thou art and unto dust shalt thou return."

Tamara was standing motionless and with an austere face that
seemed turned to stone. The light of the candle in thin gold
spirals shone in her bronze-chestnut hair; while she could not
tear her eyes away from the lines of Jennka's moist, yellow
forehead and the tip of her nose, which were visible to Tamara
from her place.

"Dust thou art and unto dust shalt thou return ..." she was
mentally repeating the words of the canticles. "Could it be that
that would be all; only earth alone and nothing more? And which is
better: nothing, or even anything at all--even the most execrable
--but merely to be existing?"

And the choir, as though affirming her thoughts, as though taking
away from her the last consolation, was uttering forlornly:

    "And all mankind may go..."

They sang Eternal Memory through, blew out the candles, and the
little blue streams spread in the air, blue from frankincense. The
priest read through the farewell prayer; and afterwards, in the
general silence, scooped up some sand with the little shovel
handed to him by the psalmist, and cast it cross-wise upon the
corpse, on top of the gauze. And at this he was uttering great
words, filled with the austere, sad inevitability of a mysterious
universal law: "The world is the Lord's, and its fulfillment the
universe, and all that dwelleth therein."

The girls escorted their dead mate to the very cemetery. The road
thither intersected the very entrance to Yamskaya Street. It would
have been possible to turn to the left through it, and that would
have been almost half as short; but dead people were not usually
carried through Yamskaya.

Nevertheless, out of almost all the doors their inmates poured out
towards the cross roads, in whatever they had on: in slippers upon
bare feet, in night gowns, with kerchiefs upon their heads; they
crossed themselves, sighed, wiped their eyes with their
handkerchiefs and the edges of their jackets.

The weather cleared up ... The cold sun shone brightly from a cold
sky of radiant blue enamel; the last grass showed its green, the
withered leaves on the trees glowed, showing their pink and gold
... And in the crystal clear, cold air solemnly, and mournfully
reverberated the sonorous sounds: "Holy God, Holy Almighty, Holy
Everliving, have mercy upon us!" And with what flaming thirst for
life, not to be satiated by aught; with what longing for the
momentary--transient like unto a dream--joy and beauty of being;
with what horror before the eternal silence of death, sounded the
ancient refrain of John Damascene!

Then a brief requiem at the grave, the dull thud of the earth
against the lid of the coffin ... a small fresh hillock ...

"And here's the end!" said Tamara to her comrades, when they were
left alone. "Oh, well, girls--an hour earlier, an hour later! ...
I'm sorry for Jennka! ... Horribly sorry! ... We won't ever find
such another. And yet, my children, it's far better for her in her
pit than for us in ours ... Well, let's cross ourselves for the
last time--and home! ..."

And when they all were already nearing their house, Tamara
suddenly uttered pensively the strange, ominous words:

"And we won't be long together without her: soon we will be
scattered, by the wind far and wide. Life is good! ... Look:
there's the sun, the blue sky ... How pure the air is ... Cobwebs
are floating--it's Indian summer ... How good it is in this world!
... Only we alone--we wenches--are wayside rubbish."

The girls started off on their journey. But suddenly from
somewhere on the side, from behind a monument, a tall sturdy
student detached himself. He caught up with Liubka and softly
touched her sleeve. She turned around and beheld Soloviev. Her
face instantaneously turned pale, her eyes opened wide and her
lips began to tremble.

"Go away!" she said quietly, with infinite hatred.

"Liuba ... Liubochka ..." Soloviev began to mumble. "I searched
... searched for you ... I ... Honest to God, I'm not like that
one ... like Lichonin ... I'm in earnest ... even right now, even
to-day.

"Go away!" still more quietly pronounced Liubka.

"I'm serious ... I'm serious ... I'm not trifling, I want to
marry..."

"Oh, you creature!" suddenly squealed out Liubka, and quickly,
hard, peasant-like, hit Soloviev on the cheek with her palm.

Soloviev stood a little while, slightly swaying. His eyes were
like those of a martyr ... The mouth half-open, with mournful
creases at the sides.

"Go away! Go away! I can't bear to look at all of you!" Liubka was
screaming with rage. "Hangmen, swine!"

Soloviev unexpectedly covered his face with his palms and went
back, without knowing his way, with uncertain steps, like one
drunk.





CHAPTER IX.


And in reality, the words of Tamara proved to be prophetic: since
the funeral of Jennie not more than two weeks had passed, but
during this brief space of time so many events burst over the
house of Emma Edwardovna as do not befall sometimes even in half a
decade.

On the very next day they had to send off to a charitable
institution--into a lunatic asylum--the unfortunate Pashka, who
had fallen completely into feeble-mindedness. The doctors said
that there was no hope of her ever improving. And in reality, as
they had placed her in the hospital on the floor, upon a straw
mattress, so did she remain upon it without getting up from it to
her very death; submerging more and more into the black,
bottomless abyss of quiet feeble-mindedness; but she died only
half a year later, from bed-sores and infection of the blood.

The next turn was Tamara's.

For about half a month she fulfilled the duties of a housekeeper,
was all the time unusually active, energetic; and somehow
unwontedly wound up with that inner something of her own, which
was so strongly fomenting within her. On a certain evening she
vanished, and did not return at all to the establishment...

The matter of fact was, that in the city she had carried on a
protracted romance with a certain notary--an elderly man,
sufficiently rich, but exceedingly niggardly. Their acquaintance
had been scraped up yet a year back, when they had been by chance
travelling together on the same steamer to a suburban monastery,
and had begun a conversation. The clever, handsome Tamara; her
enigmatic, depraved smile; her entertaining conversation; her
modest manner of deporting herself, had captivated the notary. She
had even then marked down for herself this elderly man with
picturesque gray hair, with seigniorial manners; an erstwhile
jurisconsult and a man of good family. She did not tell him about
her profession--it pleased her rather to mystify him. She only
hazily, in a few words, hinted at the fact that she was a married
lady of the middle class; that she was unfortunate in domestic
life, since her husband was a gambler and a despot; and that even
by fate she was denied such a consolation as children. At parting
she refused to pass an evening with the notary, and did not want
to meet him; but then she allowed him to write to her--general
delivery, under a fictitious name. A correspondence commenced
between them, in which the notary flaunted his style and the
ardency of his feelings, worthy of the heroes of Paul Bourget. She
maintained the same withdrawn, mysterious tone.

Then, being touched by the entreaties of the notary for a meeting,
she made an appointment in Prince Park; was charming, witty, and
languishing; but refused to go with him anywhere.

So she tortured her adorer and skillfully inflamed within him the
last passion, which at times is stronger and more dangerous than
first love. Finally, this summer, when the family of the notary
had gone abroad, she decided to visit his rooms; and here for the
first time gave herself up to him with tears, with twinges of her
conscience, and at the same time with such ardour and tenderness,
that the poor secretary lost his head completely--was plunged
entirely into that senile love, which no longer knows either
reason or retrospect; which compels a man to lose the last thing--
the fear of appearing ridiculous.

Tamara was very sparing of her meetings. This inflamed her
impatient friend still more. She consented to receiving from him
bouquets of flowers, a modest breakfast in a suburban restaurant;
but indignantly refused all expensive presents, and bore herself
so skillfully and subtly, that the notary never got up the courage
to offer her money. When he once stammered out something about a
separate apartment and other conveniences, she looked him in the
eyes so intently, haughtily, and sternly, that he, like a boy,
turned red in his picturesque gray hairs, and kissed her hands,
babbling incoherent apologies.

So did Tamara play with him, and feel the ground more and more
under her. She already knew now on what days the notary kept in
his fireproof iron safe especially large sums. However, she did
not hurry, fearing to spoil the business through clumsiness or
prematurity.

And so right now this long expected day arrived; a great
contractors' fair had just ended, and all the notaries' offices
were transacting deals for enormous suras every day. Tamara knew
that the notary usually carried off the money to the bank on
Saturdays, in order to be perfectly free on Sunday. And for that
reason on Friday the notary received the following letter:

"My dear, my adored King Solomon! Thy Shoilamite, thy girl of the
vineyard, greets thee with burning kisses ... Dear, to-day is a
holiday for me, and I am infinitely happy. To-day I am free, as
well as you. HE has gone away to Homel for twenty-four hours on
business matters, and I want to pass all the evening and ALL the
night in your place. Ah, my beloved! All my life I am ready to
pass on my knees before thee. I do not want to go anywhere. The
suburban road-houses and cabarets have bored me long ago. I want
you, only you ... you ... you alone. Await me, then, in the
evening, my joy, about ten-eleven-o'clock! Prepare a great
quantity of cold white wine, a canteloupe, and sugared chestnuts.
I am burning, I am dying from desire! It seems to me, I will tire
you out! I can not wait! My head is spinning around, my face
burning, and my hands as cold as ice. I embrace you. Thy
Valentina."

That very same evening, about eleven o'clock, she artfully,
through conversation, led the notary into showing her his
fireproof safe; playing upon his odd, pecuniary vanity. Rapidly
gliding with her glance over the shelves and the movable boxes,
Tamara turned away with a skillfully executed yawn and said:

"Fie, what a bore!"

And, having embraced the notary's neck, she whispered with her
lips at his very ears, burning him with her hot breath:

"Lock up this nastiness, my treasure! Let's go! .... Let's go!
..."

And she was the first to go out into the dining room.

"Come here, now, Volodya!" she cried out from there. "Come
quicker! I want wine and after that love, love, love without end!
... No! Drink it all, to the very bottom! Just as we will drain
our love to the very bottom today!"

The notary clinked glasses with her and at one gulp drank off his
glass. Then he drew in his lips and remarked:

"Strange ... The wine seems to be sort of bitter to-day."

"Yes!" agreed Tamara and looked attentively at her lover. "This
wine is always the least bit bitter. For such is the nature of
Rhine wines..."

"But to-day it's especially strong," said the notary. "No, thanks,
my dear--I don't want any more!"

After five minutes he fell asleep, sitting in his chair; his head
thrown back against its back, and his lower jaw hanging down.
Tamara waited for some time and started to awaken him. He was
without motion. Then she took the lit candle, and, having placed
it on the window sill giving out upon the street, went out into
the entrance hall and began to listen, until she heard light steps
on the stairs. Almost without a sound she opened the door and let
in Senka, dressed like a real gentleman, with a brand new leather
hand-bag in his hands.

"Ready?" asked the thief in a whisper.

"He's sleeping," answered Tamara, just as quietly. "Look and here
are the keys."

They passed together into the study with the fireproof safe.
Having looked over the lock with the aid of a flashlight, Senka
swore in a low voice:

"The devil take him, the old animal! ... I just knew that it would
be a lock with a combination. Here you've got to know the letters
... It's got to be melted with electricity, and the devil knows
how much time it'll take."

"It's not necessary," retorted Tamara hurriedly. "I know the word
... Pick it out: m-o-r-t-g-a-g-. Without the e."

After ten minutes they descended the steps together; went in
purposely broken lines through several streets, hiring a cab to
the depot only in the old city; and rode out of the city with
irreproachable passports of citizens and landed proprietors--the
Stavnitzkys, man and wife. For a long time nothing was heard of
them until, a year later, Senka was caught in Moscow in a large
theft, and gave Tamara away during the interrogation. They were
both tried and sentenced to imprisonment.

Following Tamara came the turn of the naive, trusting, and amorous
Verka. For a long time already she had been in love with a semi-
military man, who called himself a civic clerk in the military
department. His name was Dilectorsky. In their relations Verka was
the adoring party; while he, like an important idol,
condescendingly received the worship and the proffered gifts. Even
from the end of summer Verka noticed that her beloved was becoming
more and more cold and negligent; and, talking with her, was
dwelling in thought somewhere far, far away. She tortured herself,
was jealous, questioned him, but always received in answer some
indeterminate phrases, some ominous hints at a near misfortune, at
a premature grave ...

In the beginning of September he finally confessed to her, that he
had embezzled official money, big money, something around three
thousand; and that after five days he would be checked up, and
that he, Dilectorsky, was threatened with disgrace, the court, and
finally, hard labour ... Here the civic clerk of the military
department burst into sobs, clasping his head, and exclaimed:

"My poor mother! ... What will become of her? She will not be able
to sustain this degradation ... No! Death is a thousand times
better than these hellish tortures of a being guilty of naught."

Although he was expressing himself, as always, in the style of the
dime novels (in which way he had mainly enticed the trusting
Verka), still, the theatrical thought of suicide, once arisen, no
longer forsook him.

Somehow one day he was promenading for a long time with Verka in
Prince Park. Already greatly devastated by autumn, this wonderful
ancient park glistened and played with the magnificent tones of
the foliage, blossoming out into colours: crimson, purple, lemon,
orange and the deep cherry colour of old, settled wine; and it
seemed that the cold air was diffusing sweet odours, like precious
wine. And yet, a fine impress, a tender aroma of death, was wafted
from the bushes, from the grass, from the trees.

Dilectorsky waxed tender; gave his feelings a free rein, was moved
over himself, and began to weep. Verka wept a bit with him, too.

"To-day I will kill myself!" said Dilectorsky finally. "All is
over! ..."

"My own, don't! ... My precious, don't! ..."

"It's impossible," answered Dilectorsky sombrely. "The cursed
money! ... Which is dearer--honour or life?!"

"My dear..."

"Don't speak, don't speak, Annetta!" (He, for some reason,
preferred to the common name of Verka the aristocratic Annetta,
thought up by himself.) "Don't speak. This is decided!"

"Oh, if only I could help you!" exclaimed Verka woefully. "Why,
I'd give my life away ... Every drop of blood! ..."

"What is life?" Dilectorsky shook his head with an actor's
despondence. "Farewell, Annetta! ... Farewell! ..."

The girl desperately began to shake her head:

"I don't want it! ... I don't want it! ... I don't want it! ...
Take me! ... I'll go with you too! ..."

Late in the evening Dilectorsky took a room in an expensive hotel.
He knew, that within a few hours, perhaps minutes, he and Verka
would be corpses; and for that reason, although he had in his
pocket only eleven kopecks, all in all, he gave orders sweepingly,
like a habitual, downright prodigal; he ordered sturgeon stew,
double snipes, and fruits; and, in addition to all this, coffee,
liqueurs and two bottles of frosted champagne. And he was in
reality convinced that he would shoot himself; but thought of it
somehow affectedly, as though admiring, a trifle from the side,
his tragic role; and enjoying beforehand the despair of his
relatives and the amazement of his fellow clerks. While Verka,
when she had suddenly said that she would commit suicide with her
beloved, had been immediately strengthened in this thought. And
there was nothing fearful to Verka in this impending death. "Well,
now, is it better to croak just so, under a fence? But here it's
together with your dearie! At least a sweet death! ..." And she
frantically kissed her clerk, laughed, and with dishevelled, curly
hair, with sparkling eyes, was prettier than she had ever been.

The final triumphal moment arrived at last.

"You and I have both enjoyed ourselves, Annetta ... We have
drained the cup to the bottom and now, to use an expression of
Pushkin's, must shatter the goblet!" said Dilectorsky. "You do not
repent, oh, my dear? ..."

"No, no! ..."

"Are you ready?"

"Yes!" whispered she and smiled.

"Then turn away to the wall and shut your eyes!"

"No, no, my dearest, I don't want it so! ... I don't want it! Come
to me! There, so! Nearer, nearer.. Give me your eyes, I will be
gazing into them. Give me your lips--I will be kissing you, while
you... I am not afraid! ... Be braver! ... Kiss me harder! ..."

He killed her; and when he looked upon the horrible deed of his
hands, he then suddenly felt a loathsome, abominable, abject fear.
The half-naked body of Verka was still quivering on the bed. The
legs of Dilectorsky gave in from horror; but the reason of a
hypocrite, coward and blackguard kept vigil: he did still have
spirit sufficient to stretch away at his side the skin over his
ribs, and to shoot through it. And when he was falling,
frantically crying out from pain, from fright, and from the
thunder of the shot, the last convulsion was running through the
body of Verka.

While two weeks after the death of Verka, the naive, sportful,
meek, brawling Little White Manka perished as well. During one of
the general, clamourous brawls, usual in the Yamkas, in an
enormous affray, some one killed her, hitting her with a heavy
empty bottle over the head. And the murderer remained undiscovered
to the last.

So rapidly did events take place in the Yamkas, in the house of
Emma Edwardovna; and well nigh not a one of its inmates escaped a
bloody, foul or disgraceful doom.

The final, most grandiose, and at the same time most bloody
calamity was the devastation committed on the Yamkas by soldiers.

Two dragoons had been short-changed in a rouble establishment,
beaten up, and thrown out at night into the street. Tom to pieces,
in blood, they returned to the barracks, where their comrades,
having begun in the morning, were still finishing up their
regimental holiday. And so, not half an hour passed, when a
hundred soldiers burst into the Yamkas and began to wreck house
after house. They were joined by an innumerable mob that gathered
on the run--men of the golden squad [Footnote: Zolotorotzi-a
subtle euphemism for cleaners of cesspools and carters of the
wealth contained therein.--trans.], ragamuffins, tramps, crooks,
souteneurs. The panes were broken in all the houses, and the grand
pianos smashed to smithereens. The feather beds were ripped open
and the down thrown out into the street; and yet for a long while
after--for some two days--the countless bits of down flew and
whirled over the Yamkas, like flakes of snow. The wenches, bare-
headed, perfectly naked, were driven out into the street. Three
porters were beaten to death. The rabble shattered, befouled, and
rent into pieces all the silk and plush furniture of Treppel. They
also smashed up all the neighbouring taverns and drink-shops,
while they were at it.

The drunken, bloody, hideous slaughter continued for some three
hours; until the arrayed military authorities, together with the
fire company, finally suceeded in repulsing and scattering the
infuriated mob. Two half-rouble establishments were set on fire,
but the fire was soon put out. However, on the next day the tumult
again flared up; this time already over the whole city and its
environs. Altogether unexpectedly it took on the character of a
Jewish pogrom, which lasted for three days, with all its horrors
and miseries.

And a week after followed the order of the governor-general about
the immediate shutting down of houses of prostitution, on the
Yamkas as well as other streets of the city. The proprietresses
were given only a week's time for the settlement of matters in
connection with their property.

Annihilated, crushed, plundered; having lost all the glamour of
their former grandeur; ludicrous and pitiful, the aged, faded
proprietresses and fat-faced, hoarse housekeepers were hastily
packing up their things. And a month after only the name reminded
one of merry Yamskaya Street; of the riotous, scandalous, horrible
Yamkas.

However, even the name of the street was soon replaced by another,
more respectable one, in order to efface even the memory of the
former unpardonable times.

And all these Henriettas-Horses, Fat Kitties, Lelkas-Polecats and
other women--always naive and foolish, often touching and amusing,
in the majority of cases deceived and perverted children,--spread
through the big city, were dissolved within it. Out of them was
born a new stratum of society--a stratum of the strolling, street
prostitutes--solitaries. And about their life, just as pitiful and
incongruous, but tinged by other interests and customs, the author
of this novel--which he still dedicates to youths and mothers--
will some time tell.

THE END





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