Yama, Aleksandr Kuprin [grave mercy TXT] 📗

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 Orenburg30 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, darling?” asked Gladishev, sitting down on her bed and stroking her hand.

“Nothing special⁠ ⁠… I hit myself⁠ ⁠… Head aches a little⁠ ⁠…”

“Try not to mind it.”

“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 scrutinizing Gladishev with undiminished attentiveness.

“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 next 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 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, strange 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 her 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 tenuous, 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, Kolya⁠—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 distinguished. 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