Yama, Aleksandr Kuprin [grave mercy TXT] 📗

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 boot me 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 ⁠…32 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 someone 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 proud gallants, 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