Dark — Section 3
»I don't know,« she replied with the same obduracy, but avoiding his gaze.
She did not wish to answer him.
He shrugged his shoulders, and again went on, pertinaciously staring at the girl and weaving his fancies.
His thought, usually sluggish, once aroused worked forcibly and could not be deterred--worked almost mechanically, turning into something like a hydraulic press which slowly sinking powders up stones and bends iron beams and crushes anyone that falls beneath it--slowly, indifferently, irresistibly.
Turning neither to the left nor to the right, unmoved by sophisms, evasions, allusions, his thought would push forward clumsily and heavily until it ground itself down or reached the logical extreme beyond which lay the void and mystery.
He did not dissociate his thought from himself; he thought integrally, with the whole of his body; and each logical deduction forthwith became real to him--as happens only with very healthy or direct persons who have not yet turned thought into a pastime.
And now, alarmed, driven out of his course, like a heavy locomotive that has slipped its rails on a pitch dark night and by some miracle continues leaping over hillocks and knolls, he was seeking a road and could not anyhow find it.
The girl was still silent and evidently did not wish to talk.
»Liuba, let us have a quiet talk.
We must try to....
« »I don't want to have a quiet talk.
« Then again: »Listen, Liuba.
You hit me, and I cannot let matters rest at that.
« The girl smiled.
»No?
What will you do with me?
Go to the police-court?
« »No, but I shall keep coming to you until you explain.
« »You will be welcome.
Madame gets her profit.
« »I shall come tomorrow.
I shall come....
« And then, suddenly, almost simultaneously with the thought that neither tomorrow nor the day after would he be able to come, there flashed upon him the surmise, almost certainty, why the girl had struck him.
His face cleared.
»Oh, that's it then!
That's why you struck me--because I pitied you?
I
offended you with my compassion?
Yes, it is very stupid ...
but really, I didn't mean to--though of course it hurts.
After all, you are human, just as I am....
« »Just as you are?
« she smiled.
»Well, let that pass.
Give me your hand.
Let's be friends.
« She turned pale.
»You want me to smack your face again?
« »Give me your hand--as friends--as friends,« he repeated sincerely, but for some reason in a low voice.
But Liuba got up, and moving a little distance away said: »Do you know ...
either you are a fool or you have been very little beaten!
« She looked at him and laughed aloud.
»My God, yes!
My author!
A most perfect author!
How could one help hitting you, my dear?
« She apparently chose the word author purposely, and with some special and definite meaning.
And then, with supreme disdain, taking no more account of him than of a chattel or hopeless imbecile or drunkard, she walked freely up and down, and jeered: »Or was it that I hit you too hard?
What are you whining about?
« He made no reply.
»My author says that I'm a hard fighter.
Perhaps he has a finer face.
However hard one smacks your cheeks you seem to feel nothing!
Oh, I've knocked lots of people's mouths about, but I've never been so sorry for anyone as for my author.
'Hit away', he says, 'I deserve it.'
A drunken slobberer!
It's disgusting hitting him.
He's a brute.
But I hurt my hand on your face.
Here--kiss it where it smarts!
« She thrust her hand to his lips and withdrew it swiftly.
Her excitement was increasing.
For some minutes it seemed as though she were choking in a fever; she rubbed her breast, breathing deeply through her open mouth, and unconsciously gripped the window curtains.
And twice she stopped as she went to and fro to pour out a glass of cognac.
The second time he remarked in a surly tone.
»You said you didn't drink alone.
« »I have no consistency, my dear,« she replied, quite simply.
»I'm drugged, and unless I drink at intervals I stifle ...
This revives me.
« Then all at once, as if she had only just noticed him, she raised her eyes in surprise, and laughed.
»Ah!
There you are--still there!
Not gone yet!
Sit down, sit down!
« With a savage light in her eyes, she threw off the knitted wrap, again baring her rosy shoulders and thin soft arms.
»Why am I all wrapped up like this?
It's hot here and I ...
I must have been saving him!
How kind!...
Look here, you might at least take your trousers off.
It's only good manners here to do without your trousers.
If your drawers are dirty I'll give you mine.
Oh, never mind the slit.
Here, put them on.
Now, my dear boy, you must, you'll have to....
« She laughed until she choked, begging and putting out her hands.
Then she knelt down, clasping his hands, and implored him:-- »Now, my darling, do!
And I'll kiss your hand!
« He moved away, and, with an air of sullen grief, said: »What are you trying to do with me, Liuba?
What have I done to you?
My relations with you are quite proper.
I'm being perfectly decent to you.
What are you doing?
What is it?
Have I offended you?
If I have, forgive me.
You know, I am ...
I don't know about these things.
« With a contemptuous shrug of her naked shoulders, Liuba rose from her knees and sat down, breathing heavily.
»You mean you won't put them on.
« »I'm sorry, but I should look....
« He began saying something, hesitated and continued irresolutely, drawling his words.
»Listen, Liuba....
It's quite true!
...
It's all such nonsense!
But, if you wish it, then we can put out the light?
Yes, put out the light, please, Liuba.
« »What?
« The girl's eyes opened wide in bewilderment.
»I mean,« he continued hurriedly, »that you are a woman and I am ...
certainly I was in the wrong....
Don't think it was compassion, Liuba.
No, really it wasn't. Really not, Liuba.
I ...
but turn out the light, Liuba.
« With an agitated smile he put out his hands to her in the clumsy caressing way of a man who has never had to do with women.
And this is what he saw: she clenched her fists with a slow effort and raised them to her chin and became, as it were, one immense gasp contained in her swelling bosom, her eyes huge and staring with horror and anguish and inexpressible contempt.
»What is the matter, Liuba?
« he asked, shattered.
And with a cold horror, without unclasping her fingers, almost inaudibly she exclaimed: »Oh, you brute!
My God, what a brute you are!
« Crimson with the shame of the reproof, and outraged in that he had himself committed outrage, he stamped furiously on the floor and hurled abuse in rough curt words at those wide staring eyes with their unfathomable terror and pain.
»You prostitute, you!
You refuse!
Silence!
Silence!
« But she still quietly shook her head and repeated: »My God!
My God!
What a brute you are.
« »Silence, you slut!
You're drunk.
You've gone mad!
Do you think I need your filthy body?
Do you think it's for such as you that I've kept myself?
Sluts like you ought to be flogged!
« And he lifted his hand as though to box her ears, but did not touch her.
»My God!
My God!
« »And they even pity you!
You ought to be extirpated, all this abomination and vice!
Those who go with you, too--all that rabble!
And you dare to think me anything of that sort!
« He roughly took her by the hand and flung her on the chair.
»Oh, you fine man!
Fine?
Fine, are you?
« She laughed in a transport of delight.
»Fine?
Yes.
All my life!
Honourable!
Pure!
But you?
What are you, you harlot, you miserable beast?
« »A fine man!
« The delight of it was intoxicating her.
»Yes, fine.
After tomorrow I shall be going to my death, for mankind, for you ...
and you?
You'll be sleeping with my executioners.
Call your officers in here!
I'll fling you at their feet and tell them, 'Take your carrion!'
Call them in!
« Liuba slowly rose to her feet, and when, in a tempest of emotion, with proud distended nostrils, he looked at her, he was met by a look as proud and even more disdainful.
Even pity shone in the arrogant eyes of the prostitute; she had mounted miraculously a step of the invisible throne and thence, with a cold and stern attention, gazed down on something at her feet--something petty, clamorous, pitiable.
She no longer smiled; there was no trace of excitement; her eyes involuntarily seemed to look for the little step on which she was standing, so conscious was she of the new height from which she looked down on all things beneath her.
»What are you?
« he repeated, without moving away, as vehement as ever, but already subdued by that calm, haughty gaze.
Then, with an ominous air of conviction, behind which lay a vista of millions of crushed lives and oceans of bitter tears and the unchecked fiery course of rebellion's cry for justice, she asked sternly: »What right have you to be fine when I am so common?
« »What?
« he did not understand at once, but instantly felt a dread of the gulf that yawned in all its blackness at his very feet.
»I have been waiting for you for a long time.
« »You--waiting for me?
« »Yes, I have been waiting for a fine man.
For five years I have been waiting--perhaps longer.
All those who came admitted they were brutes--and brutes they were.
My author first said he was fine, but then admitted he was a brute, too.
I don't want that sort.
« »What, then--what do you want?
« »I want you, my darling,--you.
Yes, just such as you.
« She scrutinized him carefully and quietly from head to foot and affirmatively nodded her head.
»Yes--thank you for coming.
« Then he who feared nothing, trembled.
»What do you want with me?
« he asked, stepping back.
»It had to be a fine man, my dear, a really fine man.
Those other drivellers--its no good striking them--you only dirty your hands.
But now that I have struck you--why, I can kiss my own hand!
Little hand, you have hit a fine man!
« She smiled, and did in fact three times stroke and kiss her right hand.
He looked at her wildly, and his usually deliberate thoughts coursed with the speed of desperation.
There was approaching, like a black cloud, a Thing, terrible and irreparable as death.
»What--what did you say?
« »I said it's shameful to be fine.
Didn't you know that?
« »I never--« he muttered, and sat down, deeply confused and no longer fully conscious of her.
»Then learn it now.
« She spoke calmly, and only the swelling of her half-bared bosom betrayed how profound the emotion was that lay suppressed behind that myriad cry.
»Do you realise it now?
« »What?
« He was recovering himself.
»Do you realise it, I say?
« »Have patience!
« »I am patient, my dear.
I have waited five years.
Why shouldn't I be patient for another five minutes?
« She sat back comfortably on the chair, as though in anticipation of a rare pleasure, and crossed her naked arms and closed her eyes.
»You say it's shameful to be fine?
« »Yes, my pet, shameful.
« »But--what you say is....
« He stopped short in terror.
» ...
is so!
Are you afraid?
Never mind, never mind--it's only at first that it's frightening.
« »But afterwards?
« »You are going to stay with me and learn what comes afterwards.
« He did not understand.
»How can I stay?
« The girl, in her turn, was startled.
»Can you go anywhere now, after this?
Look, dear, don't be deceitful.
You're not a scoundrel like the others.
You are really fine, and you will stay.
It wasn't for nothing I waited for you.
« »You've gone mad!
« he exclaimed sharply.
She looked up at him sternly, and even threatened him with her finger.
»That's not fine.
Don't speak like that.
When a truth comes to you, bow down humbly before it and do not say: 'You have gone mad.'
That's what my author says, 'you've gone mad!'
But you be honourable!
« »And what if I don't stay?
« he asked with a wan smile, his lips distorted and pale.
»You will,« she said with conviction.
»Where can you go now?
You have nowhere to go.
You are honourable.
I saw it the moment you kissed my hand.
A fool, I thought, but honourable.
You are not offended that I mistook you for a fool?
It was your own fault.
Well--why did you offer me your innocence?
You thought: I will give her my innocence and she will renounce it.
Oh, you fool!
You fool!
At first I was even offended.
Why, I thought, he doesn't even consider me a human being!
And then I saw that this, too, came from this fineness of yours.
And this was your calculation: I pay her my innocence, and in return I shall be even purer than before and receive it back like a new shilling that hasn't been in circulation.
I give it to the beggar and it will come back to me....
No, my dear, that game is not coming off!
« »N--not coming off?
« »N--no, dear,« she drawled, »for I am not a fool.
I've seen enough of these tradespeople.
They pile up millions and then give a pound to a church and imagine they have righted themselves.
No, dear, you must build me an entire church.
You must give me the most precious thing you have, your innocence.
Perhaps you are only giving up your innocence because it has become useless to you, because it has tarnished.
Are you getting married?
« »No. « »Supposing you had a bride awaiting you tomorrow with flowers and embraces and love, then would you give away your innocence, or not?
« »I don't know,« he said reflectively.
»This is what I mean.
I should have said: Take my life, but leave me my honour.
You would give away the cheaper of the two.
But, no--you must give me the dearest thing of all, the thing without which you cannot live--that and nothing else!
« »But why should I give it away?
Why?
« »Why?
Only that it may not be shameful to you.
« »But, Liuba!
« he exclaimed in bewilderment.
»Listen!
You yourself are....
« »Fine, you were going to say?
I've heard that too from my author, more than once.
But, my dear, that is not the truth.
I'm just an ordinary girl, and you will stay and then you will know it.
« »I will not stay,« he cried aloud, between his teeth.
»Don't shriek, my dear.
Shrieks avail nothing against the truth--I know that for myself.
« And then in a whisper, looking straight in his eyes, she added: »For God, too, is fine!
« »Well, and then?
« »There's no more to be said.
Think it out for yourself, and I'll stop talking.
It's only five years since I went to church.
That's the truth.
« Truth?
What truth?
What was this unexplored terror, that he had never met before either in the face of death or in life itself?
Truth?
Square-cheeked, hard-headed, conscious only of the conflict in his soul, he sat there resting his head on his hands and slowly turning his eyes as though from one extreme of life to the other.
And life was collapsing--as a badly glued chest, rained upon in the autumn, falls into unrecognisable fragments of what had been so beautiful.
He remembered the good fellows with whom he had lived his life and worked in a marvellous union of joy and sorrow--and they seemed strange to him and their life incomprehensible and their work senseless.
It was as though someone with mighty fingers had taken hold of his soul and snapped it in two, as one snaps a stick across one's knee, and flung the fragments far apart.
It was only a few hours since he left _there_--and all his life seemed to have been spent _here_, in front of this half-naked woman, listening to the distant music and the jingling of spurs; and that it would always be so.
And he did not know which side to turn, up or down, but only that he was opposed, tormentingly opposed, to all that had that day become part of his very life and soul.
