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

“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 Likhonin,” 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?” Likhonin 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!”

Likhonin recalled vividly, that today at dawn he had spoken the very same phrase, like an actor; and even blinked his eyes from shame.

“That’s enough of tomfoolery. Let’s go, gentlemen. Dress yourself, Liuba.”

It was not far to The Sparrows restaurant, some two hundred steps. On the way Liuba, unnoticed, took Likhonin 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 today 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 Likhonin, 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 Likhonin 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 Likhonin 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 the only other light penetrated through a narrow little basement window. 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 Likhonin, 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,” Likhonin 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 Likhonin. “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 steadfastness 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 coarse contempt for everything that is said by an opponent⁠ ⁠… Many accomplish their ends with the terrible Russian word yerunda: Fiddlesticks!⁠—“Fiddlesticks!” they say