feeling - and suddenly blushed. 'What if she suddenly bursts out laughing, what will I do with myself then?' The idea infuriated me. I had indeed become excited towards the end of my speech, and now my vanity somehow suffered. The silence continued. I even wanted to nudge her.
'It's like you…' she began suddenly, and stopped.
But I already understood everything: something different was trembling in her voice now, not sharp, not rude, not unyielding as before, but something soft and bashful, so bashful that I myself felt abashed, felt guilty before her.
'What?' I asked, with tender curiosity.
'But you…'
'What?'
'It's as if you… as if it's from a book,' she said, and again something like mockery suddenly sounded in her voice.
I was painfully twinged by this remark. It was not what I was expecting.
I did not even understand that she was purposely assuming a mask of mockery, that this is the usual last device of a bashful and chaste-hearted person whose soul is being rudely and importunately pried into, and who will not surrender till the last minute out of pride, and is afraid of showing any feeling before you. I should have guessed it from the very timidity with which she ventured, haltingly, upon her mockery, before she finally brought herself to express it. But I did not guess, and a wicked feeling took hold of me. 'You just wait,' I thought.
VII
Eh, come now, Liza, what have books got to do with it, if I myself feel vile for your sake. And not only for your sake. It all just rose up in my soul… Can it be, can it be that you don't find it vile here? No, habit evidently counts for a lot! Devil knows what habit can't make of a person. But can it be that you seriously think you'll never get old, that you'll be forever good-looking, and they'll keep you here forever and ever? It's foul enough even here, needless to say… However, this is what I can tell you about that, I mean, about your present life: granted you're young, attractive, nice, with a soul, with feelings; well, but do you know that when I came to my senses just now, I immediately felt vile for being here with you! One has to be drunk to end up here. But if you were in a different place, living as good people live, I might not just dangle after you, but simply fall in love with you, and be glad if you merely glanced at me, let alone spoke. I'd watch for you by the gate, I'd stay forever on my knees before you; I'd look upon you as my fiancee, and regard it as an honor. I wouldn't dare even think anything impure about you. While here I know I just have to whistle and, like it or not, you'll go with me, and it's no longer I who ask your will, but you mine. The merest peasant hires himself out to work - yet his bondage isn't total; besides, he knows there's a term to it. But where is your term? Just think: what is it you're giving up here? What are you putting in bondage? It's your soul, your soul, over which you have no power, that you put in bondage along with your body! You give your love to be profaned by any drunkard! Love! - but this is everything, it's a diamond, a maiden's treasure, this love! To deserve this love a man would be ready to lay down his soul, to face death. And what is the value of your love now? You're all bought, bought outright, and why try to obtain love if everything is possible without love? There's no worse offense for a girl, do you understand that? Now, I've heard that they humor you, fools that you are - they allow you to have lovers here. That's only an indulgence, only a deception, only a mockery of you, yet you believe it. What, does he really love you, this lover? I don't believe it. How can he love you, when he knows that you'll be called away from him any moment. He's a rotter in that case! Does he have even a drop of respect for you? What do you have in common with him? He's laughing at you while he steals from you - that's what his love amounts to! You can be thankful if he doesn't beat you. But maybe he does. Ask yours, if you have one: will he marry you? He'll burst out laughing in your face, if he doesn't spit, or give you a beating -and meanwhile his total worth is maybe two broken kopecks. And for the sake of what, one wonders, have you ruined your life here? For having coffee to drink, and being well fed? But what do they feed you for? Another woman, an honest one, would choke on it, because she'd know what they're feeding her for. You're in debt here, so you'll stay in debt, and you'll be in debt till the final end, till the time when the clients start spurning you. And that will come soon, don't count on your youth. It all flies by posthaste here. So they'll kick you out. And not simply kick you out, but first start picking on you long beforehand, reproaching you, abusing you - as if it wasn't you who gave her your health, destroyed your youth and soul for her in vain, but as if it was you who ruined her, beggared her, robbed her. And don't look for any support: the other girls will also attack you, to get in good with her, because everyone here is a slave and has long since lost all conscience and compassion. They're sunk in meanness, and no abuse in the world is more foul, mean, or offensive than that. And you'll lay down everything here, everything without stint - health, and youth, and beauty, and hopes - and at twenty-two you'll look like you're thirty-five, and you'll be lucky if you're not sick, pray to God for that. You must be thinking now that it's a picnic and not work at all! But there is not and never has been any harder or harsher work in the world than this. One would think your heart alone would simply pour itself out in tears. And you won't dare say a word, not half a word, when they throw you out of here; you'll go as if you were the one to blame. You'll go to another place, then to a third, then somewhere else, and finally you'll reach the Haymarket. And there they'll give you the routine beating; it's a courtesy of the place; there a client can't even be nice to a girl without beating her first. You don't believe it's so disgusting there? Go and look someday, maybe you'll see with your own eyes. I once saw a girl there, alone, by the door, on New Year's day. Her own people had kicked her out for the fun of it, to cool her off a bit, because she was howling too much, and locked the door behind her. At nine o'clock in the morning she was already completely drunk, disheveled, half-naked, all beaten up. Her face was powdered white, and her eyes were black-and-blue; blood was flowing from her nose and teeth: some coachman had just given her a pasting. She sat down on the stone stairs, holding some kind of salted fish; she was howling and wailing something about her 'miserble lot,' beating her fish against the steps. And coachmen and drunken soldiers crowded around the steps, teasing her. You don't believe you'll be the same? I wouldn't want to believe it either, but how do you know, maybe this same girl, the one with the salted fish, came here from somewhere ten or, say, eight years ago, fresh as a little cherub, innocent, pure, knowing no evil, and blushing at every word. Maybe she was just like you - proud, touchy, different from the rest; she had the look of a princess, and knew that complete happiness awaited the one who would love her, and whom she would love. See where it ended up? And what if at the same moment as she sat there, drunk and disheveled, beating her fish on the dirty steps, what if at that moment she recalled all her former pure years in her father's house, when she was still going to school, and the neighbor's son used to watch for her on the way, assured her he would love her all his life, that he would make his fate hers, and they made a vow together to love each other forever and to be married as soon as they got bigger! No, Liza, it will be lucky, lucky for you if you die quickly of consumption, someplace in a corner, in a basement, like that girl. In a hospital, you say? If they take you there, fine, but what if your madam still needs you? Consumption is that sort of illness; it's not a fever. A person goes on hoping till the last moment, saying he's well. It's just self-indulgence. But there's profit in it for the madam. Don't worry, it's true; you've sold your soul, you owe money besides, so you don't dare make a peep. And when you're dying, they'll all abandon you, they'll all turn away from you - because what good are you then? They'll even reproach you for uselessly taking up space and not dying quickly enough. You'll have a hard time getting a drink of water, they'll give it to you with a curse: 'Hurry up and croak, you slut; you're moaning, people can't sleep, the clients are disgusted.' It's true; I've overheard such words myself. They'll shove you, on the point of croaking, into the stinkingest corner of the basement - dark, damp; what will you go over in your mind then, lying there alone? You'll die - they'll lay you out hurriedly, strangers' hands, grumblingly, impatiently - and no one will bless you, no one will sigh over you, all they'll think is how to get you off their backs quickly. They'll buy a pine box, take you out as they did that poor girl today, and go to a pot-house to commemorate you. There's slush, muck, wet snow in the grave - they won't go to any trouble over you. 'Lower her
