Yama by Aleksandr Kuprin (best ereader for pdf TXT) 📕

“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, goodbye⁠ ⁠…”

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 great guy 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 ⁠…”

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 I haven’t noticed myself?⁠ ⁠… That means being packed off into 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 a hand on each side of it, that clasped one another when all the three parts of the ring were compressed, while the second was of thin gold wire, set 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 wineglass after wineglass, 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 today?” 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 wineglass; 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 this cathouse? You don’t at all resemble all of us; you know everything; for everything that turns up you have a good, clever word⁠ ⁠… 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