Yama (The Pit) by Aleksandr Ivanovich Kuprin
PART THREE
CHAPTER VII
On the next day, on Sunday, Tamara had a multitude of cares. She
had become possessed by a firm and undeviating thought to bury her
friend despite all circumstances, in the way that nearest friends
are buried—in a Christian manner, with all the sad solemnity of
the burial of secular persons.
She belonged to the number of those strange persons who underneath
an external indolent calmness, careless taciturnity, egotistical
withdrawal into one's self, conceal within them unusual energy;
always as though slumbering with half an eye, guarding itself from
unnecessary expenditure; but ready in one moment to become
animated and to rush forward without reckoning the obstacles.
At twelve o'clock she descended in a cab into the old town; rode
through it into a little narrow street giving out upon a square
where fairs were held; and stopped near a rather dirty tea-room,
having ordered the cabby to wait. In the room she made inquiries
of a boy, red-haired, with a badger hair-cut and the parting
slicked down with butter, if Senka the Depot had not come here?
The serving lad, who, judging by his refined and gallant
readiness, had already known Tamara for a long time, answered that
"Nohow, ma'am; they—Semen Ignatich—had not been in yet, and
probably would not be here soon seein' as how yesterday they had
the pleasure of going on a spree at the Transvaal, and had played
at billiards until six in the morning; and that now they, in all
probabilities, are at home, in the Half Way House rooms, and if
the young lady will give the word, then it's possible to hop over
to them this here minute."
Tamara asked for paper and pencil, and wrote a few words right on
the spot. Then she gave the note to the waiter, together with a
half-rouble piece for a tip, and rode away.
The following visit was to the artiste Rovinskaya, living, as
Tamara had known even before, in the city's most aristocratic
hotel—Europe—where she occupied several rooms in a consecutive
suite. To obtain an interview with the singer was not very easy:
the doorman below said that it looked as if Ellena Victorovna was
not at home; while her own personal maid, who came out in answer
to Tamara's knocking, declared that madam had a headache, and that
she was not receiving any one. Again Tamara was compelled to write
on a piece of paper:
"I come to you from her who once, in a house which is not spoken
of loudly, cried, standing before you on her knees, after you had
sung the ballad of Dargomyzhsky. Your kind treatment of her was so
splendid. Do you remember? Do not fear—she has no need of any
one's help now: yesterday she died. But you can do one very
important deed in her memory, which will be almost no trouble to
you at all. While I—am that very person who permitted herself to
say a few bitter truths to the baroness T—, who was then with
you; for which truths I am remorseful and apologize even now."
"Hand this over!" she ordered the chambermaid.
She returned after two minutes.
"The madam requests you. They apologize very much that they will
receive you not fully dressed."
She escorted Tamara, opened a door before her and quietly shut it.
The great artiste was lying upon an enormous ottoman, covered with
a beautiful Tekin rug and a multitude of little silk pillows, and
soft cylindrical bolsters of tapestry. Her feet were wrapped up in
silvery, soft fur. Her fingers, as usual, were adorned by a
multiplicity of rings with emeralds, attracting the eyes by their
deep and tender green.
The artiste was having one of her evil, black days to-day.
Yesterday morning some misunderstandings with the management had
arisen; while in the evening the public had received her not as
triumphantly as she would have desired, or, perhaps, this had
simply appeared so to her; while to-day in the newspaper the fool
of a reviewer, who understood just as much of art as a cow does of
astronomy, had praised up her rival, Titanova, in a big article.
And so Ellena Victorovna had persuaded herself that her head was
aching; that there was a nervous tic in her temples; and that her
heart, time and again, seemed suddenly to fall through somewheres.
"How do you do, my dear!" she said, a trifle nasally, in a weak,
wan voice, with pauses, as heroines on the stage speak when dying
from love and from consumption. "Sit down here ... I am glad to
see you ... Only don't be angry—I am almost dying from migraine,
and from my miserable heart. Pardon my speaking with difficulty. I
think I sang too much and tired my voice ..."
Rovinskaya, of course, had recalled both the mad escapade of that
evening; and the striking, unforgettable face of Tamara; but now,
in a bad mood, in the wearisome, prosaic light of an autumn day,
this adventure appeared to her as unnecessary bravado; something
artificial, imagined, and poignantly shameful. But she was equally
sincere on that strange, night-marish evening when she, through
the might of talent, had prostrated the proud Jennka at her feet,
as well as now, when she recalled it with fatigue, indolence, and
artistic disdain. She, as well as many distinguished artists, was
always playing a role; was always not her own self, and always
regarded her words, movements, actions, as though looking at
herself from a distance with the eyes and feelings of the
spectators.
She languidly raised from the pillow her narrow, slender,
beautiful hand, and applied it to her forehead; and the
mysterious, deep emeralds stirred as though alive and began to
flash with a warm, deep sparkle.
"I just read in your note that this poor ... pardon me, her name
has vanished out of my head..."
"Jennie."
"Yes, yes, thank you! I recall it now. She died? But from what?"
"She hanged herself ... yesterday morning, during the doctor's
inspection..."
The eyes of the artiste, so listless, seemingly faded, suddenly
opened, and, as through a miracle, grew animated and became
shining and green, just like her emeralds; and in them were
reflected curiosity, fear and aversion.
"Oh, my God! Such a dear, so original, handsome, so fiery ... Oh,
the poor, poor soul! ... And the reason for this was? ..."
"You know ... the disease. She told you."
"Yes, yes ... I remember, I remember ... But to hang one's self!
... What horror! ... Why, I advised her to treat herself then.
Medicine works miracles now. I myself know several people who
absolutely ... well, absolutely cured themselves. Everybody in
society knows this and receives them ... Ah, the poor little
thing, the poor little thing! ..."
"And so I've come to you, Ellena Victorovna. I wouldn't have dared
to disturb you, but I seem to be in a forest, and have no one to
turn to. You were so kind then, so touchingly attentive, so tender
to us ... I need only your advice and, perhaps, a little of your
influence, your protection..."
"Oh, please, my dear! ... All I can do, I will ... Oh, my poor
head! And then this horrible news. Tell me, in what way can I be
of assistance to you?"
"To confess, I don't know even myself yet," answered Tamara. "You
see, they carried her away to an anatomical theatre ... But until
they had made the protocol, until they made the journey—then the
time for receiving had gone by also—in general I think that they
have not had a chance to dissect her yet ... I'd like, if it's
only possible, that she should not be touched. To-day is Sunday;
perhaps they'll postpone it until to-morrow, and in the meanwhile
something may be done for her..."
"I can't tell you, dear ... Wait! ... Haven't I some friend among
the professors, in the medical world? ... I will look later in my
memo-books. Perhaps we will succeed in doing something."
"Besides that," continued Tamara, "I want to bury her ... At my
expense ... I was attached to her with all my heart during her
life."
"I will help you with pleasure in this, materially..."
"No, no! ... A thousand thanks! ... I'll do everything myself. I
would not hesitate to have recourse to your kind heart, but this
... —you will understand me— ... this is something in the nature
of a vow, that a person gives to one's self and to the memory of a
friend. The main difficulty is in how we may manage to bury her
with Christian rites. She was, it seems, an unbeliever, or
believed altogether poorly. And it's only by chance that I, also,
will cross my forehead. But I don't want them to bury her just
like a dog, somewhere beyond the enclosure of the cemetery; in
silence, without words, without singing ... I don't know, will
they permit burying her properly—with choristers, with priests?
For that reason I'm asking you to assist me with your advice. Or,
perhaps, you will direct me somewhere? ..."
Now the artiste had little by little become interested and was
already beginning to forget about her fatigue, and migraine, and
the consumptive heroine dying in the fourth act. She was already
picturing the role of an intercessor, the beautiful figure of
genius merciful to a fallen woman. This was original, extravagant,
and at the same time so theatrically touching! Rovinskaya, like
many of her confreres, did not let one day pass by—and, if it
were possible, she would not have let pass even one hour—without
standing out from the crowd, without compelling people to talk
about her: to-day she would participate in a pseudo-patriotic
manifestation, while to-morrow she would read from a platform, for
the benefit of revolutionaries exiled to Siberia, inciting verses,
full of fire and vengeance. She loved to sell flowers at
carnivals, in riding academies; and to sell champagne at large
balls. She would think up her little bon mots beforehand, which on
the morrow would be caught up by the whole town. She desired that
everywhere and always the crowd should look only at her, repeat
her name, love her Egyptian, green eyes, her rapacious and
sensuous mouth; her emeralds on the slender and nervous hands.
"I can't grasp it all properly at once," said she after a silence.
"But if a person wants anything hard, he will attain it, and I
want to fulfill your wish with all my soul. Stay, stay! ... I
think a glorious thought is coming into my head ... For then, on
that evening, if I mistake not, there was with us, beside the
baroness and me..."
"I don't know them ... One of them walked out of the cabinet later
than all of you. He kissed Jennie's hand and said, that if she
should ever need him, he was always at her service; and gave her
his card, but asked her not to show it to any strangers. But later
all this passed off somehow and was forgotten. In some way I never
found the time to ask Jennie who this man was; while yesterday I
searched for the card but couldn't find it..."
"Allow me, allow me! ... I have recalled it!" the artiste suddenly
became animated. "Aha!" exclaimed she, rapidly getting off the
ottoman. "It was Ryazanov... Yes, yes, yes... The advocate Ernst
Andreievich Ryazanov. We will arrange everything right away.
That's a splendid thought!"
She turned to the little table upon which the telephone apparatus
was standing, and rang:
"Central—l8-35 please ... Thank you ... Hello! ... Ask Ernst
Andreievich to the telephone ... The artiste Rovinskaya ... Thank
you ... Hello! ... Is this you, Ernst Andreievich? Very well, very
well, but now it isn't a matter of little hands. Are you free? ...
Drop the nonsense! ... The matter is serious. Couldn't you come up
to me for a quarter of an hour? ...No, no ... Yes ... Only as a
kind and a clever man. You slander yourself ... Well, that's
splendid, really ... Well, I am not especially well-dressed, but I
have a justification—a fearful headache. No, a lady, a girl ...
You will see for yourself, come as soon as possible ... Thanks! Au
revior! ..."
"He will come right away," said Rovinskaya, hanging up the
receiver. "He is a charming and awfully clever man. Everything is
possible to him, even the almost impossible to man ... But in the
meantime ... pardon me—your name?"
Tamara was abashed, but then smiled at herself:
"Oh, it isn't worth your disturbing yourself, Ellena Victorovna!
Mon nomme de guerre is Tamara but just so—Anastasia Nikolaevna.
It's all the same—call me even Tamara ... I am more used to
it..."
"Tamara! ... That is so beautiful! ... So now, Mile. Tamara,
perhaps you will not refuse to breakfast with me? Perhaps Ryazanov
will also do so with us..."
"I have no time, forgive me."
"That's a great pity! ... I hope, some other time ... But, perhaps
you smoke," and she moved toward her a gold case, adorned with an
enormous letter E out of the same emeralds she adored.
Ryazanov came very soon.
Tamara, who had not examined him properly on that evening, was
struck by his appearance. Tall of stature, almost of an athletic
build, with a broad brow, like Beethoven's, tangled with
artistically negligent black, grizzled hair; with the large fleshy
mouth of the passionate orator; with clear, expressive, clever,
mocking eyes—he had such an appearance as catches one's eyes
among thousands—the appearance of a vanquisher of souls and a
conqueror of hearts; deeply ambitious, not yet oversated with
life; still fiery in love and never retreating before a beautiful
indiscretion ... "If fate had not broken me up so," reflected
Tamara, watching his movements with enjoyment, "then here's a man
to whom I'd throw my life; jestingly, with delight, with a smile,
as a plucked rose is thrown to the beloved..."
Ryazanov kissed Rovinskaya's hand, then with unconstrained
simplicity exchanged greetings with Tamara and said:
"We are acquainted even from that mad evening, when you
dumbfounded all of us with your knowledge of the French language,
and when you spoke. That which you said was, between us,
paradoxical; but then, how it was said! ... To this day I remember
the tone of your voice, so warm, expressive ... And so, Ellena
Victorovna," he turned to Rovinskaya again, sitting down on a
small, low chair without a back, "in what can I be of use to you?
I am at your disposal."
Rovinskaya, with a languid air, again applied the tips of her
fingers to her temples.
"Ah, really, I am so upset, my dear Ryazanov," said she,
intentionally extinguishing the sparkle of her magnificent eyes,
"and then, my miserable head ... May I trouble you to pass me the
pyramidon what-not from that table ... Let Mile. Tamara tell you
everything ... I can not, I am not able to ... This is so
horrible! ..."
Tamara briefly, lucidly, narrated to Ryazanov all the sad history
of Jennka's death; recalled also about the card left with Jennie;
and also how the deceased had reverently preserved this card; and
—in passing—about his promise to help in case of need.
"Of course, of course!" exclaimed Ryanzanov, when she had
finished; and at once began pacing the room back and forth with
big steps, ruffling and tossing back his picturesque hair through
habit. "You are performing a magnificent, sincere, comradely
action! That is good! ... That is very good! ... I am yours ...
You say—a permit for the funeral ... Hm ... God grant me memory!
..."
He rubbed his forehead with his palm.
"Hm ... hm ... If I'm not mistaken—Monocanon, rule one hundred
seventy ... one hundred seventy ... eight ... Pardon me, I think I
remember it by heart ... Pardon me! ... Yes, so! 'If a man slayeth
himself, he shall not be chanted over, nor shall a mass be said
for him, unless he were greatly astonied, that is, to wit, out of
his mind'... Hm ... See St. Timothy Alexandrine ... And so, my
dear miss, the first thing ... You say, that she was taken down
from the noose by your doctor—i.e., the official city doctor ...
His name? ..."
"Klimenko."
"It seems I've met him somewheres ... All right ... Who is the
district inspector in your precinct station?"
"Kerbesh."
"Aha, I know ... Such a strong, virile fellow, with a red beard in
a fan ... Yes?"
"Yes, that is he."
"I know him very well! There, now, is somebody that a sentence to
hard labour is hankering after ... Some ten times he fell into my
hands; and always, the skunk, gave me the slip somehow. Slippery,
just like an eel-pout ... We will have to slip him a little
present. Well, now! And then the anatomical theatre ... When do
you want to bury her?"
"Really, I don't know ... I would like to do it as soon as
possible ... if possible, to-day."
"Hm ... To-day ... I don't vouch for it—we will hardly manage it
... But here is my memorandum book. Well, take even this page,
where are my friends under the letter T—just write the very same
way: Tamara, and your address. In two hours I will give you an
answer. Does that suit you? But I repeat again, that probably you
will have to postpone the burial till to-morrow ... Then—pardon
my unceremoniousness—is money needed, perhaps?"
"No, thank you!" refused Tamara. "I have money. Thanks for your
interest! ... It's time for me to be going. I thank you with all
my heart, Ellen Victorovna! ..."
"Then expect it in two hours," repeated Ryazanov, escorting her to
the door.
Tamara did not at once ride away to the house. She turned into a
little coffee-house on Catholicheskaya Street on the way. There
Senka the Depot was waiting for her—a gay fellow with the
appearance of a handsome Tzigan; not black—but blue-haired;
black-eyed, with yellow whites; resolute and daring in his work;
the pride of local thieves—a great celebrity in their world, the
first leader of experience, and a constant, all-night gamester.
He stretched out his hand to her, without getting up. But in the
way in which he so carefully, with a certain force, seated her in
her place could be seen a broad, good-natured endearment.
"How do you do, Tamarochka! Haven't seen you in a long time—I
grew weary ... Do you want coffee?"
"No! Business first ... To-morrow we bury Jennka ... She hanged
herself..." "Yes, I read it in a newspaper," carelessly drawled
out Senka through his teeth. "What's the odds? ..."
"Get fifty roubles for me at once."
"Tamarochka, my sweetheart—I haven't a kopeck! ..."
"I'm telling you—get them!" ordered Tamara, imperiously, but
without getting angry.
"Oh, my Lord! ... Yours, now, I didn't touch, like I promised; but
then, it's Sunday ... The savings banks are closed..."
"Let them! ... Hock the savings book! In general, it's up to you!"
"Why do you need this, my dearie?"
"Isn't it all the same to you, you fool? ... For the funeral."
"Oh! Well, all right then!" sighed Senka. "Then I'd best bring it
to you myself in the evening ... Right, Tamarochka? ... It's so
very hard for me to stand it without you! Oh, my dearie, how I'd
kiss and kiss you; I wouldn't let you close your eyes! ... Shan't
I come? ..."
"No, no! ... You do as I ask you, Senechka ... Give in to me. But
you mustn't come—I'm housekeeper now."
"Well, what d'you know about that! ..." drawled out the astonished
Senka and even whistled.
"Yes. And don't you come to me in the meantime. But afterwards,
afterwards, sweetheart, whatever you desire ... There will be an
end to everything soon!"
"Oh, if you wouldn't make me suffer so! Wind things up as soon as
you can!"
"And I will wind 'em up! Wait one little week more, dearie! Did
you get the powders?"
"The powders are a trifle!" discontentedly answered Senka. "And it
isn't powders at all, but pills."
"And you're sure when you say that they'll dissolve at once in
water?"
"Sure, I saw it myself."
"But he won't die? Listen, Senya: he won't die? Is that right?
..."
"Nothing will happen to him ... He'll only snooze for a while ...
Oh, Tamara!" exclaimed he in a passionate whisper; and even
suddenly stretched himself hard from an unbearable emotion, so
that his joints cracked. "Finish it, for God's sake, as soon as
possible! ... Let's do the trick and—bye-bye! Wherever you want
to go to, sweet-heart! I am all at your will: if you want to, we
start off for Odessa; if you want to—abroad. Finish it up as soon
as possible! ..."
"Soon, soon..."
"You just wink at me, and I'm all ready ... with powders, with
instruments, with passports ... And then—choo-choo! The machine
is off! Tamarochka! My angel! ... My precious, my sparkler! ..."
And he, always restrained, having forgotten that he could be seen
by strangers, already wanted to embrace and hug Tamara to himself.
"Now, now! ... rapidly and deftly, like a cat, Tamara jumped off
the chair. "Afterwards ... afterwards, Senechka, afterwards,
little dearie! ... I'll be all yours—there won't be any denial,
nor forbiddance. I'll myself make you weary of me ... Good-bye, my
little silly!"
And with a quick movement of her hand having rumpled up his black
curls, she hastily went out of the coffee-house.