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

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 loafer17
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!⁠ ⁠…

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 anyone 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.”18

“Figurez-vous, que moi, j’ai aussi remarqué cet étrange visage. Comme si je l’ai déjà vu⁠ ⁠… est-ce en rêve?⁠ ⁠… en demi-delire? Ou dans sa petite enfance?”19

“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’hôtel de Koniakine, l’entrepreneur Solovieitschik, et le tenor di grazzia⁠ ⁠… A ce moment vous n’etiez pas encore