Yama (The Pit) by Aleksandr Ivanovich Kuprin
PART THREE
CHAPTER IX
And in reality, the words of Tamara proved to be prophetic: since
the funeral of Jennie not more than two weeks had passed, but
during this brief space of time so many events burst over the
house of Emma Edwardovna as do not befall sometimes even in half a
decade.
On the very next day they had to send off to a charitable
institution—into a lunatic asylum—the unfortunate Pashka, who
had fallen completely into feeble-mindedness. The doctors said
that there was no hope of her ever improving. And in reality, as
they had placed her in the hospital on the floor, upon a straw
mattress, so did she remain upon it without getting up from it to
her very death; submerging more and more into the black,
bottomless abyss of quiet feeble-mindedness; but she died only
half a year later, from bed-sores and infection of the blood.
The next turn was Tamara's.
For about half a month she fulfilled the duties of a housekeeper,
was all the time unusually active, energetic; and somehow
unwontedly wound up with that inner something of her own, which
was so strongly fomenting within her. On a certain evening she
vanished, and did not return at all to the establishment...
The matter of fact was, that in the city she had carried on a
protracted romance with a certain notary—an elderly man,
sufficiently rich, but exceedingly niggardly. Their acquaintance
had been scraped up yet a year back, when they had been by chance
travelling together on the same steamer to a suburban monastery,
and had begun a conversation. The clever, handsome Tamara; her
enigmatic, depraved smile; her entertaining conversation; her
modest manner of deporting herself, had captivated the notary. She
had even then marked down for herself this elderly man with
picturesque gray hair, with seigniorial manners; an erstwhile
jurisconsult and a man of good family. She did not tell him about
her profession—it pleased her rather to mystify him. She only
hazily, in a few words, hinted at the fact that she was a married
lady of the middle class; that she was unfortunate in domestic
life, since her husband was a gambler and a despot; and that even
by fate she was denied such a consolation as children. At parting
she refused to pass an evening with the notary, and did not want
to meet him; but then she allowed him to write to her—general
delivery, under a fictitious name. A correspondence commenced
between them, in which the notary flaunted his style and the
ardency of his feelings, worthy of the heroes of Paul Bourget. She
maintained the same withdrawn, mysterious tone.
Then, being touched by the entreaties of the notary for a meeting,
she made an appointment in Prince Park; was charming, witty, and
languishing; but refused to go with him anywhere.
So she tortured her adorer and skillfully inflamed within him the
last passion, which at times is stronger and more dangerous than
first love. Finally, this summer, when the family of the notary
had gone abroad, she decided to visit his rooms; and here for the
first time gave herself up to him with tears, with twinges of her
conscience, and at the same time with such ardour and tenderness,
that the poor secretary lost his head completely—was plunged
entirely into that senile love, which no longer knows either
reason or retrospect; which compels a man to lose the last thing—
the fear of appearing ridiculous.
Tamara was very sparing of her meetings. This inflamed her
impatient friend still more. She consented to receiving from him
bouquets of flowers, a modest breakfast in a suburban restaurant;
but indignantly refused all expensive presents, and bore herself
so skillfully and subtly, that the notary never got up the courage
to offer her money. When he once stammered out something about a
separate apartment and other conveniences, she looked him in the
eyes so intently, haughtily, and sternly, that he, like a boy,
turned red in his picturesque gray hairs, and kissed her hands,
babbling incoherent apologies.
So did Tamara play with him, and feel the ground more and more
under her. She already knew now on what days the notary kept in
his fireproof iron safe especially large sums. However, she did
not hurry, fearing to spoil the business through clumsiness or
prematurity.
And so right now this long expected day arrived; a great
contractors' fair had just ended, and all the notaries' offices
were transacting deals for enormous suras every day. Tamara knew
that the notary usually carried off the money to the bank on
Saturdays, in order to be perfectly free on Sunday. And for that
reason on Friday the notary received the following letter:
"My dear, my adored King Solomon! Thy Shoilamite, thy girl of the
vineyard, greets thee with burning kisses ... Dear, to-day is a
holiday for me, and I am infinitely happy. To-day I am free, as
well as you. He has gone away to Homel for twenty-four hours on
business matters, and I want to pass all the evening and all the
night in your place. Ah, my beloved! All my life I am ready to
pass on my knees before thee. I do not want to go anywhere. The
suburban road-houses and cabarets have bored me long ago. I want
you, only you ... you ... you alone. Await me, then, in the
evening, my joy, about ten-eleven-o'clock! Prepare a great
quantity of cold white wine, a canteloupe, and sugared chestnuts.
I am burning, I am dying from desire! It seems to me, I will tire
you out! I can not wait! My head is spinning around, my face
burning, and my hands as cold as ice. I embrace you. Thy
Valentina."
That very same evening, about eleven o'clock, she artfully,
through conversation, led the notary into showing her his
fireproof safe; playing upon his odd, pecuniary vanity. Rapidly
gliding with her glance over the shelves and the movable boxes,
Tamara turned away with a skillfully executed yawn and said:
"Fie, what a bore!"
And, having embraced the notary's neck, she whispered with her
lips at his very ears, burning him with her hot breath:
"Lock up this nastiness, my treasure! Let's go! .... Let's go!
..."
And she was the first to go out into the dining room.
"Come here, now, Volodya!" she cried out from there. "Come
quicker! I want wine and after that love, love, love without end!
... No! Drink it all, to the very bottom! Just as we will drain
our love to the very bottom today!"
The notary clinked glasses with her and at one gulp drank off his
glass. Then he drew in his lips and remarked:
"Strange ... The wine seems to be sort of bitter to-day."
"Yes!" agreed Tamara and looked attentively at her lover. "This
wine is always the least bit bitter. For such is the nature of
Rhine wines..."
"But to-day it's especially strong," said the notary. "No, thanks,
my dear—I don't want any more!"
After five minutes he fell asleep, sitting in his chair; his head
thrown back against its back, and his lower jaw hanging down.
Tamara waited for some time and started to awaken him. He was
without motion. Then she took the lit candle, and, having placed
it on the window sill giving out upon the street, went out into
the entrance hall and began to listen, until she heard light steps
on the stairs. Almost without a sound she opened the door and let
in Senka, dressed like a real gentleman, with a brand new leather
hand-bag in his hands.
"Ready?" asked the thief in a whisper.
"He's sleeping," answered Tamara, just as quietly. "Look and here
are the keys."
They passed together into the study with the fireproof safe.
Having looked over the lock with the aid of a flashlight, Senka
swore in a low voice:
"The devil take him, the old animal! ... I just knew that it would
be a lock with a combination. Here you've got to know the letters
... It's got to be melted with electricity, and the devil knows
how much time it'll take."
"It's not necessary," retorted Tamara hurriedly. "I know the word
... Pick it out: m-o-r-t-g-a-g-. Without the e."
After ten minutes they descended the steps together; went in
purposely broken lines through several streets, hiring a cab to
the depot only in the old city; and rode out of the city with
irreproachable passports of citizens and landed proprietors—the
Stavnitzkys, man and wife. For a long time nothing was heard of
them until, a year later, Senka was caught in Moscow in a large
theft, and gave Tamara away during the interrogation. They were
both tried and sentenced to imprisonment.
Following Tamara came the turn of the naive, trusting, and amorous
Verka. For a long time already she had been in love with a semi-
military man, who called himself a civic clerk in the military
department. His name was Dilectorsky. In their relations Verka was
the adoring party; while he, like an important idol,
condescendingly received the worship and the proffered gifts. Even
from the end of summer Verka noticed that her beloved was becoming
more and more cold and negligent; and, talking with her, was
dwelling in thought somewhere far, far away. She tortured herself,
was jealous, questioned him, but always received in answer some
indeterminate phrases, some ominous hints at a near misfortune, at
a premature grave ...
In the beginning of September he finally confessed to her, that he
had embezzled official money, big money, something around three
thousand; and that after five days he would be checked up, and
that he, Dilectorsky, was threatened with disgrace, the court, and
finally, hard labour ... Here the civic clerk of the military
department burst into sobs, clasping his head, and exclaimed:
"My poor mother! ... What will become of her? She will not be able
to sustain this degradation ... No! Death is a thousand times
better than these hellish tortures of a being guilty of naught."
Although he was expressing himself, as always, in the style of the
dime novels (in which way he had mainly enticed the trusting
Verka), still, the theatrical thought of suicide, once arisen, no
longer forsook him.
Somehow one day he was promenading for a long time with Verka in
Prince Park. Already greatly devastated by autumn, this wonderful
ancient park glistened and played with the magnificent tones of
the foliage, blossoming out into colours: crimson, purple, lemon,
orange and the deep cherry colour of old, settled wine; and it
seemed that the cold air was diffusing sweet odours, like precious
wine. And yet, a fine impress, a tender aroma of death, was wafted
from the bushes, from the grass, from the trees.
Dilectorsky waxed tender; gave his feelings a free rein, was moved
over himself, and began to weep. Verka wept a bit with him, too.
"To-day I will kill myself!" said Dilectorsky finally. "All is
over! ..."
"My own, don't! ... My precious, don't! ..."
"It's impossible," answered Dilectorsky sombrely. "The cursed
money! ... Which is dearer—honour or life?!"
"My dear..."
"Don't speak, don't speak, Annetta!" (He, for some reason,
preferred to the common name of Verka the aristocratic Annetta,
thought up by himself.) "Don't speak. This is decided!"
"Oh, if only I could help you!" exclaimed Verka woefully. "Why,
I'd give my life away ... Every drop of blood! ..."
"What is life?" Dilectorsky shook his head with an actor's
despondence. "Farewell, Annetta! ... Farewell! ..."
The girl desperately began to shake her head:
"I don't want it! ... I don't want it! ... I don't want it! ...
Take me! ... I'll go with you too! ..."
Late in the evening Dilectorsky took a room in an expensive hotel.
He knew, that within a few hours, perhaps minutes, he and Verka
would be corpses; and for that reason, although he had in his
pocket only eleven kopecks, all in all, he gave orders sweepingly,
like a habitual, downright prodigal; he ordered sturgeon stew,
double snipes, and fruits; and, in addition to all this, coffee,
liqueurs and two bottles of frosted champagne. And he was in
reality convinced that he would shoot himself; but thought of it
somehow affectedly, as though admiring, a trifle from the side,
his tragic role; and enjoying beforehand the despair of his
relatives and the amazement of his fellow clerks. While Verka,
when she had suddenly said that she would commit suicide with her
beloved, had been immediately strengthened in this thought. And
there was nothing fearful to Verka in this impending death. "Well,
now, is it better to croak just so, under a fence? But here it's
together with your dearie! At least a sweet death! ..." And she
frantically kissed her clerk, laughed, and with dishevelled, curly
hair, with sparkling eyes, was prettier than she had ever been.
The final triumphal moment arrived at last.
"You and I have both enjoyed ourselves, Annetta ... We have
drained the cup to the bottom and now, to use an expression of
Pushkin's, must shatter the goblet!" said Dilectorsky. "You do not
repent, oh, my dear? ..."
"No, no! ..."
"Are you ready?"
"Yes!" whispered she and smiled.
"Then turn away to the wall and shut your eyes!"
"No, no, my dearest, I don't want it so! ... I don't want it! Come
to me! There, so! Nearer, nearer.. Give me your eyes, I will be
gazing into them. Give me your lips—I will be kissing you, while
you... I am not afraid! ... Be braver! ... Kiss me harder! ..."
He killed her; and when he looked upon the horrible deed of his
hands, he then suddenly felt a loathsome, abominable, abject fear.
The half-naked body of Verka was still quivering on the bed. The
legs of Dilectorsky gave in from horror; but the reason of a
hypocrite, coward and blackguard kept vigil: he did still have
spirit sufficient to stretch away at his side the skin over his
ribs, and to shoot through it. And when he was falling,
frantically crying out from pain, from fright, and from the
thunder of the shot, the last convulsion was running through the
body of Verka.
While two weeks after the death of Verka, the naive, sportful,
meek, brawling Little White Manka perished as well. During one of
the general, clamourous brawls, usual in the Yamkas, in an
enormous affray, some one killed her, hitting her with a heavy
empty bottle over the head. And the murderer remained undiscovered
to the last.
So rapidly did events take place in the Yamkas, in the house of
Emma Edwardovna; and well nigh not a one of its inmates escaped a
bloody, foul or disgraceful doom.
The final, most grandiose, and at the same time most bloody
calamity was the devastation committed on the Yamkas by soldiers.
Two dragoons had been short-changed in a rouble establishment,
beaten up, and thrown out at night into the street. Tom to pieces,
in blood, they returned to the barracks, where their comrades,
having begun in the morning, were still finishing up their
regimental holiday. And so, not half an hour passed, when a
hundred soldiers burst into the Yamkas and began to wreck house
after house. They were joined by an innumerable mob that gathered
on the run—men of the golden squad [Footnote: Zolotorotzi-a
subtle euphemism for cleaners of cesspools and carters of the
wealth contained therein.—trans.], ragamuffins, tramps, crooks,
souteneurs. The panes were broken in all the houses, and the grand
pianos smashed to smithereens. The feather beds were ripped open
and the down thrown out into the street; and yet for a long while
after—for some two days—the countless bits of down flew and
whirled over the Yamkas, like flakes of snow. The wenches, bare-
headed, perfectly naked, were driven out into the street. Three
porters were beaten to death. The rabble shattered, befouled, and
rent into pieces all the silk and plush furniture of Treppel. They
also smashed up all the neighbouring taverns and drink-shops,
while they were at it.
The drunken, bloody, hideous slaughter continued for some three
hours; until the arrayed military authorities, together with the
fire company, finally suceeded in repulsing and scattering the
infuriated mob. Two half-rouble establishments were set on fire,
but the fire was soon put out. However, on the next day the tumult
again flared up; this time already over the whole city and its
environs. Altogether unexpectedly it took on the character of a
Jewish pogrom, which lasted for three days, with all its horrors
and miseries.
And a week after followed the order of the governor-general about
the immediate shutting down of houses of prostitution, on the
Yamkas as well as other streets of the city. The proprietresses
were given only a week's time for the settlement of matters in
connection with their property.
Annihilated, crushed, plundered; having lost all the glamour of
their former grandeur; ludicrous and pitiful, the aged, faded
proprietresses and fat-faced, hoarse housekeepers were hastily
packing up their things. And a month after only the name reminded
one of merry Yamskaya Street; of the riotous, scandalous, horrible
Yamkas.
However, even the name of the street was soon replaced by another,
more respectable one, in order to efface even the memory of the
former unpardonable times.
And all these Henriettas-Horses, Fat Kitties, Lelkas-Polecats and
other women—always naive and foolish, often touching and amusing,
in the majority of cases deceived and perverted children,—spread
through the big city, were dissolved within it. Out of them was
born a new stratum of society—a stratum of the strolling, street
prostitutes—solitaries. And about their life, just as pitiful and
incongruous, but tinged by other interests and customs, the author
of this novel—which he still dedicates to youths and mothers—
will some time tell.
THE END