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

thought to himself: “She is spoiling my life; I am growing common, foolish; I have become dissolved in sweet and sour, fool benevolence; it will end up in my marrying Liuba, entering the excise or the assay office, or getting in among pedagogues; I’ll be taking bribes, will gossip, and become an abominable provincial slug. And where are my dreams of the power of thought, the beauty of life, of love and deeds for all humanity?” he would say, at times even aloud, and pull his hair. And for that reason, instead of attentively going into Liubka’s complaints, he would lose his temper, yell, stamp his feet, and the patient, meek Liubka would grow quiet and retire into the kitchen, to have a good, quiet cry there.

Now more and more frequently, after family quarrels, in the minutes of reconciliation he would say to Liubka:

“My dear Liuba, you and I do not suit each other, comprehend that. Look: here are a hundred roubles for you, ride home. Your relatives will receive you as their own. Live there a while, look around you. I will come for you after half a year; you’ll have become rested, and, of course, all that’s filthy, nasty, that has been grafted upon you by the city, will leave you, will die off. And you’ll begin a new life independently, without any assistance, alone and proud!”

But then, can anything be done with a woman who has come to love for the first, and, of course, as it seems to her, for the last time? Can she be convinced of the necessity for parting? Does logic exist for her?

Always reverent before the firmness of the words and decisions of Simanovsky, Likhonin, however, surmised and by instinct understood his real relation to Liubka; and in his desire to free himself, to shake off a chance load beyond his strength, he would catch himself in a nasty little thought: “She pleases Simanovsky; and as for her, isn’t it all the same if it’s he or I or a third? Guess I’ll make a clean breast of it, explain things to him, and yield her up to him like a comrade. But then, the fool won’t go. She’ll raise a rumpus.”

“Or just to come upon the two of them together, somehow,” he would ponder further, “in some decisive pose⁠ ⁠… to raise a noise, make a row⁠ ⁠… A noble gesture⁠ ⁠… a little money thrown down and⁠ ⁠… a getaway.”

He now frequently, for several days, would not return home; and afterwards, having come, would undergo torturesome hours of feminine interrogations, scenes, tears, even hysterical fits, followed by apologies and ardent caresses, after which Likhonin was incontinent anew, and anew fell into sin. And always, after a fall he said with bitterness: “I swear to thee⁠—this is my last animal weakness.”

Liubka would at times watch him in secret, when he went out of the house; would stop opposite the entrance that he went into, and for hours would await his return in order to reproach him and to cry in the street. Not being able to read, she intercepted his letters and, not daring to turn to the aid of the Prince or Soloviev, would save them up in her little cupboard together with sugar, tea, lemon and all sorts of other trash. She had even reached the stage when, in minutes of anger, she threatened him with sulphuric acid.

“May the devil take her,” Likhonin would ponder during the minutes of his “crafty plans.” “It’s all one, let there even be nothing between them. But I’ll take and make a fearful scene for him, and her.”

And he would declaim to himself:

“Ah, so!⁠ ⁠… I have warmed you in my bosom, and what do I see now? You are paying me with black ingratitude.⁠ ⁠… And you, my best comrade, you have attempted my sole happiness!⁠ ⁠… O, no, no, remain together; I go hence with tears in my eyes. I see that I am one too many! I do not wish to oppose your love,” etc., etc.

And precisely these dreams, these hidden plans, such momentary, chance, and, at bottom, vile ones⁠—of those to which people do not confess to themselves later⁠—were suddenly fulfilled. It was the turn of Soloviev’s lesson. To his great happiness, Liubka had at last read through almost without faltering: “A good plough has Mikhey, and a good one has Sisio as well⁠ ⁠… a swallow⁠ ⁠… a swing⁠ ⁠… the children love God⁠ ⁠…” And as a reward for this Soloviev read aloud to her Of the Merchant Kalashnikov and of Kiribeievich, Life-Guardsman of Czar Ivan the Fourth. Liubka from delight bounced in her armchair, clapping her hands. The beauty of this monumental, heroic work had her in its grasp. But she did not have a chance to express her impressions in full. Soloviev was hurrying to a business appointment. And immediately, meeting Soloviev and having barely exchanged greetings with him in the doorway, came Simanovsky. Liubka’s face sadly lengthened and her lips pouted. For this pedantic teacher and coarse male had become very repugnant to her of late.

This time he began a lecture on the theme that for man there exist no laws, no rights, no duties, no honour, no vileness; and that man is a quantity self-sufficient, independent of anyone and anything.

“It’s possible to be a God, possible to be an intestinal worm, a tape worm⁠—it’s all the same.”

He already wanted to pass on to the theory of amatory emotions; but, it is to be regretted, he hurried a trifle from impatience: he embraced Liubka, drew her to him and began to squeeze her roughly. “She’ll become intoxicated from caressing. She’ll give in!” thought the calculating Simanovsky. He sought to touch her mouth with his lips for a kiss, but she screamed and snorted spit at him. All the assumed delicacy had left her.

“Get out, you mangy devil, fool, swine, dirt! I’ll smash your snout for you!⁠ ⁠…”

All the lexicon of the establishment had come back to her; but Simanovsky, having lost his pince-nez, his