Yama - Aleksandr Kuprin (spanish books to read .TXT) 📗

Tamara walked up to him with rapid steps.

“You’ll go this minute to Madame⁠ ⁠… to Magda. You’ll assist her to dress⁠—in her own clothes⁠—and to wash up, and so forth. And then you’ll bring her here. Let the rest of the wenches march to their rooms. Let me see nor hide nor hair of you, or I’ll run all of you into the lockup!”

When Magda came⁠—not at all frightened or upset, but, on the contrary, as calm as ever⁠—the officer arose quickly and, making a low bow, kissed the hand extended to him, while Berkesh drew himself up like a post.

“There’s a bit of a bill⁠ ⁠…” the housekeeper began weakly.

“No bills of any sort! Silence!” the inordinately zealous Berkesh barked out at her; but the officer squeamishly ordered him to cease.

The housekeeper’s bill was paid not only in full, but with a large pourboire. A chic carriage awaited the officer and the lady at the front entrance. Berkesh assisted both of them into it.

There had been an interesting conversation between Magda and Tamara, who was helping her to get ready.

“So, Magda, it turns out that you’re no wench at all?” asked Tamara.

Magda smiled:

“I never was that.”

“That means you’re respectable?”

“No, my dear. I’m an enemy of respectability.”

“Well, then, why⁠—why did you ever come into such a house? Or weren’t there enough men for you when you were free, if you’ve such a hankering after them?”

Magda again smiled, with a shading of some hidden sadness:

“Ah, Tamara, Tamara⁠—you wouldn’t believe me, for anything, if I were to tell you that I’m an innocent girl, even right up to now.”

Tamara simply exploded from laughter.

“You don’t say! You took on six or seven men a day in our house⁠—fine innocent girl you are!”

Magda’s face became serious. She leant toward Tamara, who just then was squatting on her heels, and asked her quietly:

“Tamara, you’re a clever girl. Tell me.⁠ ⁠… Suppose you’re a young girl, and ‘innocent,’ as you girls put it.⁠ ⁠… And that, now, some low-down skunk has raped you. After that, are you a maid, or aren’t you?”

“What bosh you ask. No maid⁠—of course. I’d no longer be whole then.”

“Well, and before God, or before a good husband, who’d understand everything and take pity upon you⁠—or even before your own self⁠—would you be guilty or innocent?”

“Well, now⁠—innocent, of course.”

“Just so in my case. Well, you would hardly understand me⁠ ⁠…”

Tamara was silent for a while. Then she asked quietly:

“But this officer? Is he your husband? Your fiancé? Your brother?”

“None of these. He’s my comrade.”

“Ah, Magdochka, I feel that you’re not lying to me the least wee bit, but I simply can’t understand you. Just as though you were some sort of a lil’ natural. That you’re a lady⁠—I’ve been feeling that long since. But why⁠—why, of your own free will, have you come into our cesspool? I, for instance⁠—I’ll open up to you⁠—I received an education at one time, even though a superficial one. I still remember two foreign languages. The language I speak here isn’t mine, but assumed; I used it in speaking with you on purpose. But I’m a vagabond, a bird of passage⁠—never do I know whither my soul is flying, nor where it will perch. But you! You! You! Why did you do it?”

Magda’s face suddenly became stony, cold.

“Yes,” said she dryly. “I, too, have long since penetrated your pretence, assumed for the sake of equality in this company.⁠ ⁠… Well, now, if you find the matter so interesting. I’ll tell you straight. I’m a writer⁠—I wanted to write up the customs and life of sporting houses, and, in order that my novel might be authentic, I decided to go through it all. Through all!”

Tamara, who was by now finished with her work, straightened up and said:

“Good. I believe in the sincerity of your intentions⁠—but when it comes to this authoress part⁠—no. Your sweep is much too great. But about this conversation of ours⁠—I swear I shan’t tell anybody.”

“Just as you wish,” said Magda coldly. “Thank you.” Then suddenly, as if relenting, she clasped Tamara hard, kissed her ardently, and, in a whisper, said in her ear:

“I’ll write you.”

Some eight months passed after these events. The days of Gapon,7 of the All-Russian Strike, of the Little Constitution, came on. In a word, one sniffed revolution in the air. Political raids and arrests were the order of the day all over Russia.

And so, at the dead of a certain night, there burst into the peaceful little domicile of Anna Markovna some gens d’armes, accompanied by the police. A cordon was thrown around the house. All the guests found in the house were held and politely transferred to the large cabinet, under guard; those sleeping were awakened for this purpose. The house was searched, from garret to cellar. Brochures, proclamations and bombs were being sought. Nothing, of course, was found. The young ladies, by turns, were led into another cabinet, and there the chief of the gens d’armes, now sternly, now kindly interrogated each one of them concerning Magda: What had she been doing? What had she said? Whom had she seen? Whom did she write letters to? Did she, perhaps, give to any of her mates any brochures, or books?

The young ladies understood nothing of these questions, became confused, turned so red that they sweated, blinked their eyes, and frequently threw themselves at the feet of authority: “May thunder strike me on the spot if I’ve done a single thing⁠—if I killed anybody or stole anything!⁠ ⁠…” They were quickly dismissed.

Tamara could have said a great deal⁠—especially about her last talk with Magda. Thus would have acted the majority of prostitutes, in whom a hysterical passion to make themselves stand out somehow, to be marked apart, is excessively developed.

But Tamara answered rather cynically:

“I can’t tell you anything about her, mister chief, save that she was a low-down tart and a depraved creature. There wasn’t enough men for her in the world⁠—she had to get