Yama (The Pit) by Aleksandr Ivanovich Kuprin
PART THREE
CHAPTER IV
A fine rain, like dust, obstinate and tedious, had been drizzling
since morning. Platonov was working in the port at the unloading
of watermelons. At the mill, where he had since the very summer
proposed to establish himself, luck had turned against him; after
a week he had already quarreled, and almost had a fight, with the
foreman, who was extremely brutal with the workers. About a month
Sergei Ivanovich had struggled along somehow from hand to mouth,
somewheres in the back-yards of Temnikovskaya Street, dragging
into the editorial rooms of The Echoes, from time to time, notes
of street accidents or little humorous scenes from the court rooms
of the justices of the peace. But the hard newspaper game had long
ago grown distasteful to him. He was always drawn to adventures,
to physical labour in the fresh air, to life completely devoid of
even the least hint at comfort; to care-free vagabondage, in which
a man, having cast from him all possible external conditions, does
not know himself what is going to be with him on the morrow. And
for that reason, when from the lower stretches of the Dnieper the
first barges with watermelons started coming in, he willingly
entered a gang of labourers, in which he was known even from last
year, and loved for his merry nature, for his comradely spirit,
and for his masterly ability of keeping count.
This labour was carried on with good team work and with skill.
Four parties, each of five men, worked on each barge. Number one
would reach for a watermelon and pass it on to the second, who was
standing on the side of the barge. The second cast it to the
third, standing already on the wharf; the third threw it over to
the fourth; while the fourth handed it up to the fifth, who stood
on a horse cart and laid the watermelons away—now dark-green, now
white, now striped—into even glistening rows. This work is clean,
lively, and progresses rapidly. When a good party is gotten up, it
is a pleasure to see how the watermelons fly from hand to hand,
are caught with a circus-like quickness and success, and anew, and
anew, without a break, fly, in order to fill up the dray. It is
only difficult for the novices, that have not as yet gained the
skill, have not caught on to that especial sense of the tempo. And
it is not as difficult to catch a watermelon as to be able to
throw it.
Platonov remembered well his first experiences of last year. What
swearing—virulent, mocking, coarse—poured down upon him when for
the third or fourth time he had been gaping and had slowed up the
passing: two watermelons, not thrown in time, had smashed against
the pavement with a succulent crunch, while the completely lost
Platonov dropped the one which he was holding in his hands as
well. The first time they treated him gently; on the second day,
however, for every mistake they began to deduct from him five
kopecks per watermelon out of the common share. The following time
when this happened, they threatened to throw him out of the party
at once, without any reckoning. Platonov even now still remembered
how a sudden fury seized him: "Ah, so? The devil take you!" he had
thought. "And yet you want me to be chary of your watermelons? So
then, here you are, here you are! ..." This flare-up helped him as
though instantaneously. He carelessly caught the watermelons, just
as carelessly threw them over, and to his amazement suddenly felt
that precisely just now he had gotten into the real swing of the
work with all his muscles, sight, and breathing; and understood,
that the most important thing was not to think at all of the
watermelons representing some value, and that then everything went
well. When he, finally, had fully mastered this art, it served him
for a long time as a pleasant and entertaining athletic game of
its own kind. But that, too, passed away. He reached, in, the end,
the stage where he felt himself a will-less, mechanical wheel in a
general machine consisting of five men and an endless chain of
flying watermelons.
Now he was number two. Bending downward rhythmically, he, without
looking, received with both hands the cold, springy, heavy
watermelon; swung it to the right; and, also almost without
looking, or looking only out of the corner of his eye, tossed it
downward, and immediately once again bent down for the next
watermelon. And his ear seized at this time how smack-smack
...smack-smack...the caught watermelons slapped in the hands; and
immediately bent downwards and again threw, letting the air out of
himself noisily—ghe...ghe...
The present work was very profitable; their gang, consisting of
forty men, had taken on the work, thanks to the great rush, not by
the day but by the amount of work done, by the waggon load.
Zavorotny, the head—an enormous, mighty Poltavian—had succeeded
with extreme deftness in getting around the owner; a young man,
and, to boot, in all probability not very experienced as yet. The
owner, it is true, came to his senses later and wanted to change
the stipulations; but experienced melon growers dissuaded him from
it in time: "Drop it. They'll kill you," they told him simply and
firmly. And so, through this very stroke of good luck every member
of the gang was now earning up to four roubles a day. They all
worked with unusual ardour, even with some sort of vehemence; and
if it had been possible to measure with some apparatus the labour
of each one of them, then, in all probability, the number of units
of energy created would have equalled the work of a large
Voronezhian train horse.
However, Zavorotny was not satisfied even with this—he hurried
and hurried his lads on all the time. Professional ambition was
speaking within him; he wanted to bring the daily earnings of
every member of the gang up to five roubles per snout. And gaily,
with unusual ease, twinkled from the harbour to the waggon,
twirling and flashing, the wet green and white watermelons; and
their succulent plashing resounded against accustomed palms.
But now a long blast sounded on the dredging machine in the port.
A second, a third, responded to it on the river; a few more on
shore; and for a long time they roared together in a mighty chorus
of different voices.
"Ba-a-a-st-a-a!" hoarsely and thickly, exactly like a locomotive
blast, Zavorotny started roaring.
And now the last smack-smack—and the work stopped
instantaneously.
Platonov with enjoyment straightened out his back and bent it
backward, and spread out his swollen arms. With pleasure he
thought of having already gotten over that first pain in all the
muscles, which tells so during the first days, when one is just
getting back into the work after disuse. While up to this day,
awaking in the mornings in his lair on Temnikovskaya—also to the
sound of a factory blast agreed upon—he would during the first
minutes experience such fearful pains in his neck, back, in his
arms and legs, that it seemed to him as if only a miracle would be
able to compel him to get up and make a few steps.
"Go-o-o and e-at," Zavorotny began to clamour again.
The stevedores went down to the water; got down on their knees or
laid down flat on the gangplank or on the rafts; and, scooping up
the water in handfuls, washed their wet, heated faces and arms.
Right here, too, on the shore, to one side, where a little grass
had been left yet, they disposed themselves for dinner: placed in
a circle ten of the most ripe watermelons, black bread, and twenty
dried porgies. Gavriushka the Bullet was already running with a
half-gallon bottle to the pot-house and was singing as he went the
soldiers' signal for dinner:
"Drag spoon and mess-kit out,
If there's no bread, eat without."
A bare-footed urchin, dirty and so ragged that there was more of
his bare body than clothes upon him, ran up to the gang.
"Which one of you here is Platonov?" he asked, quickly running
over them with his thievish eyes.
"I'm Platonov, and by what name do they tease you?"
"Around the corner here, behind the church, some sort of a young
lady is waiting for you...Here's a note for you."
The whole gang neighed deeply.
"What d'you open up your mouths for, you pack of fools!" said
Platonov calmly. "Give me the note here."
This was a letter from Jennka, written in a round, naive, rolling,
childish handwriting, and not very well spelt.
"Sergei Ivanich. Forgive me that I disturbe you. I must talk over
a very, very important matter with you. I would not be troubling
you if it was Trifles. For only 10 minutes in all. Jennka, whom
you know, from Anna Markovna's."
Platonov got up.
"I'm going away for a little while," he said to Zavorotny. "When
you begin, I'll be in my place."
"Now you've found somethin' to do," lazily and contemptuously said
the head of the gang. "There's the night for that business...Go
ahead, go ahead, who's holding you. But only if you won't be here
when we begin work, then this day don't count. I'll take any
tramp. And as many watermelons as he busts—that's out of your
share, too...I didn't think it of you, Platonov—that you're such
a he-dog..."
Jennka was waiting for him in the tiny little square, sheltered
between a church and the wharf, and consisting of ten sorry
poplars. She had on a gray, one-piece street dress; a simple,
round, straw hat with a small black ribbon. "And yet, even though
she has dressed herself simply," reflected Platonov, looking at
her from a distance with his habitually puckered eyes, "and yet,
every man will walk past, give a look, and inevitably look back
three or four times; he'll feel the especial tone at once."
"Howdy do, Jennka! Very glad to see you," he said cordially,
squeezing the girl's hand. "There, now, I didn't expect it!"
Jennka was reserved, sad, and apparently troubled over something.
Platonov at once understood and sensed this.
"You excuse me, Jennechka, I must have dinner right away," said
he, "so, perhaps, you'll go together with me and tell me what's
the matter, while I'll manage to eat at the same time. There's a
modest little inn not far from here. At this time there are no
people there at all, and there's even a tiny little stall, a sort
of a private room; that will be just the thing for you and me.
Let's go! Perhaps you'll also have a bite of something."
"No. I won't eat," answered Jennka hoarsely, "and I won't detain
you for long...a few minutes. I have to talk things over, have
some advice—but I haven't anybody."
"Very well...Let's go then! In whatever way I can, I'm always at
your service, in everything. I love you very much, Jennka!"
She looked at him sadly and gratefully.
"I know this, Serge Ivanovich; that's why I've come."
"You need money, perhaps? Just say so. I haven't got much with me,
myself; but the gang will trust me with an advance."
"No, thanks...it isn't that at all. I'll tell everything at once,
there, where we're going now."
In the dim, low-ceiled little inn, the customary haunt of petty
thieves, where business was carried on only in the evening, until
very far into the night, Platonov took the little half-dark cubby
hole.
"Give me boiled meat, cucumbers, a large glass of vodka, and
bread," he ordered the waiter.
The waiter—a young fellow with a dirty face; pugnosed; as dirty
and greasy in all his person as though he had just been pulled out
of a cesspool, wiped his lips and asked hoarsely:
"How many kopecks' bread?" "As much as it comes to." Then he
started laughing:
"Bring as much as possible—we'll reckon it up later... and some
bread cider!"
"Well, Jennie, say what your trouble is...I can already see by
your face that there's trouble, or something distasteful in
general...Go ahead and tell it!"
Jennka for a long time plucked her handkerchief and looked at the
tips of her slippers, as though, gathering her strength.
Timorousness had taken possession of her—the necessary and
important words would not come into her mind, for anything.
Platonov came to her aid: "Don't be embarrassed, my dear Jennie,
tell all there is! For you know that I'm like one of the family,
and will never give you away. And perhaps I may really give you
some worth-while advice. Well, dive off with a splash into the
water—begin!"
"That's just it, I don't know how to begin," said Jennka
irresolutely. "Here's what, Sergei Ivanovich, I'm a sick
woman...Understand?—sick in a bad way...With the most nasty
disease...Do you know which?"
"Go on!" said Platonov, nodding his head.
"And I've been that way for a long time...more than a month...a
month and a half, maybe...Yes, more than a month, because I found
out about this on the Trinity..."
Platonov quickly rubbed his forehead with his hand. "Wait a while,
I've recalled it...This was that day I was there together with the
students...isn't that so?"
"That's right, Sergei Ivanovich, that's so..."
"Ah, Jennka," said Platonov reproachfully and with regret. "For do
you know, that after this two of the students got sick...Wasn't it
from you?"
Jennka wrathfully and disdainfully flashed her eyes.
"Perhaps even from me...How should I know? There were a lot of
them...I remember there was this one, now, who was even trying to
pick a fight with you all the time ...A tall sort of fellow, fair-
haired, in pince-nez..."
"Yes, yes...That's Sobashnikov. They passed the news to
me...That's he...that one was nothing—a little coxcomb! But then
the other—him I'm sorry for. Although I've known him long,
somehow I never made the right inquiries about his name...I only
remember that he comes from some city or other—
Poliyansk...Zvenigorodsk... His comrades called him Ramses...When
the physicians—he turned to several physicians—when they told
him irrevocably that he had the lues, he went home and shot
himself...And in the note that he wrote there were amazing things,
something like this: I supposed all the meaning of life to be in
the triumph of mind, beauty and good; with this disease I am not a
man, but junk, rottenness, carrion; a candidate for a progressive
paralytic. My human dignity cannot reconcile itself to this. But
guilty in all that has happened, and therefore in my death as
well, am I alone; for that I, obeying a momentary bestial
inclination, took a woman without love, for money. For that reason
have I earned the punishment which I myself lay upon me..."
"I am sorry for him..." added Platonov quietly.
Jennka dilated her nostrils.
"But I, now, not the very least bit."
"That's wrong...You go away now, young fellow. When I'll need you
I'll call out," said Platonov to the serving-man "Absolutely
wrong, Jennechka! This was an unusually big and forceful man. Such
come only one to the hundreds of thousands. I don't respect
suicides. Most frequent of all, these are little boys, who shoot
and hang themselves over trifles, like a child that has not been
given a piece of candy, and hits itself against the wall to spite
those around it. But before his death I reverently and with sorrow
bow my head. He was a wise, generous, kindly man, attentive to
all; and, as you see, too strict to himself."
"But to me this is absolutely all one," obstinately contradicted
Jennka, "wise or foolish, honest or dishonest, old or young—I
have come to hate them all. Because—look upon me—what am I? Some
sort of universal spittoon, cesspool, privy. Think of it,
Platonov; why, thousands, thousands of people have taken me,
clutched me; grunted, snorted over me; and all those who were, and
all those who might yet have been on my bed—oh, how I hate them
all! If I only could, I would sentence them to torture by fire and
iron! ... I would order..."
"You are malicious and proud, Jennie," said Platonov quietly.
"I was neither malicious nor proud...It's only now. I wasn't ten
yet when my own mother sold me; and since that time I've been
travelling from hand to hand... If only some one had seen a human
being in me! No! ... I am vermin, refuse, worse than a beggar,
worse than a thief, worse than a murderer! ... Even a hangman...we
have even such coming to the establishment—and even he would have
treated me loftily, with loathing: 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
with a boot 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... [Footnote:
This story is Lit. No. 29, by Guy de Maupassant.—Trans.] 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
some one 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
cavaliers, 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 around
his mouth...He used to come to me from still last winter...And
then suddenly I had pity on him... Not because he was very
handsome and very young; and not because he had always been very
polite—even tender, if you will...No, both the one and the other
had come to me, but I did not spare them: with enjoyment I marked
them off, just like cattle, with a red-hot brand ...But this one I
suddenly pitied...I myself don't understand—why? I can't make it
out. It seemed to me, that it would be all the same as stealing
money from a little simpleton, a little idiot; or hitting a blind
man, or cutting a sleeper's throat...if he only were some dried-up
marasmus or a nasty little brute, or a lecherous old fellow, I
would not have stopped. But he was healthy, robust, with chest and
arms like a statue's...and I could not... I gave him his money
back, showed him my disease; in a word, I acted like a fool among
fools. He went away from me...burst into tears...And now since
last evening I haven't slept. I walk around as in a
fog...Therefore—I'm thinking right now—therefore, that which, I
meditated; my dream to infect them all; to infect their fathers,
mothers, sisters, brides—even all the world—therefore, all this
was folly, an empty fantasy, since I have stopped? ... Once again,
I don't understand anything ...Sergei Ivanovich, you are so wise,
you have seen so much of life—help me, then, to find myself now!
..."
"I don't know, Jennechka!" quietly pronounced Platonov. "Not that
I fear telling you, or advising you, but I know absolutely
nothing. This is above my reason... above conscience..."
Jennie crossed her fingers and nervously cracked them.
"And I, too, don't know...Therefore, that which I thought—is not
the truth. Therefore, there is but one thing left me...This
thought came into my head this morning..."
"Don't, don't do it, Jennechka! ... Jennie! ..." Platonov quickly
interrupted her.
"There's one thing: to hang myself..."
"No, no, Jennie, only not that! ... If there were other
circumstances, unsurmountable, I would, believe me, tell you
boldly: well, it's no use, Jennie; it's time to close up shop...
But what you need isn't that at all... If you wish, I can suggest
one way out to you, no less malicious and merciless; but which,
perhaps, will satiate your wrath a hundredfold..."
"What's that?" asked Jennie, wearily, as though suddenly wilted
after her flare-up.
"Well, this is it ... You're still young, and I'll tell you the
truth, you are very handsome; that is, you can be, if you only
want to, unusually stunning ... That's even more than beauty. But
you've never yet known the bounds and the power of your
appearance; and, mainly, you don't know to what a degree such
natures as yours are bewitching, and how mightily they enchain men
to them, and make out of them more than slaves and brutes ... You
are proud, you are brave, you are independent, you are a clever
woman. I know—you have read a great deal, let's presuppose even
trashy books, but still you have read, you have an entirely
different speech from the others. With a successful turn of life,
you can cure yourself, you can get out of these 'Yamkas,' these
'Little Ditches,' into freedom. You have only to stir a finger, in
order to see at your feet hundreds of men; submissive, ready for
your sake for vileness, for theft, for embezzlement ... Lord it
over them with tight reins, with a cruel whip in your hands! ...
Ruin them, make them go out of their minds, as long as your desire
and energy hold out! ... Look, my dear Jennie, who manages life
now if not women! Yesterday's chambermaid, laundress, chorus girl
goes through estates worth millions, the way a country-woman of
Tver cracks sunflower seeds. A woman scarcely able to sign her
name, at times affects the destiny of an entire kingdom through a
man. Hereditary princes marry the street-walkers, the kept
mistresses of yesterday... Jennechka, there is the scope for your
unbridled vengeance; while I will admire you from a distance...
For you—you are made of this stuff—you are a bird of prey, a
spoliator... Perhaps not with such a broad sweep—but you will
cast them down under your feet."
"No," faintly smiled Jennka. "I thought of this before ... But
something of the utmost importance has burned out within me. There
are no forces within me, there is no will within me, no desires
... I am somehow all empty inside, rotted ... Well, now, you know,
there's a mushroom like that—white, round,—you squeeze it, and
snuff pours out of it. And the same way with me. This life has
eaten out everything within me save malice. And I am flabby, and
my malice is flabby ... I'll see some little boy again, will have
pity on him, will be punishing myself again ... No, it's better
... better so! ..."
She became silent. And Platonov did not know what to say. It
became oppressive and awkward for both. Finally, Jennka got up,
and, without looking at Platonov, extended her cold, feeble hand
to him.
"Good-bye, Sergei Ivanovich! Excuse me, that I took up your time
... Oh, well, I can see myself that you'd help me, if you only
could ... But, evidently, there's nothing to be done here ...
Good-bye!"
"Only don't do anything foolish, Jennechka! I implore you! ..."
"Oh, that's all right!" said she and made a tired gesture with her
hand.
Having come out of the square, they parted; but, having gone a few
steps, Jennka suddenly called after him:
"Sergei Ivanovich, oh Sergei Ivanovich! ..."
He stopped, turned around, walked back to her.
"Roly-Poly croaked last evening in our drawing room. He jumped and
he jumped, and then suddenly plumped down ... Oh, well, it's an
easy death at least! And also I forgot to ask you, Sergei
Ivanovich ... This is the last, now ... Is there a God or no?"
Platonov knit his eyebrows.
"What answer can I make? I don't know. I think that there is, but
not such as we imagine Him. He is more wise, more just..."
"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, good-bye..."
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 he-dog 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..."