YAMA [THE PIT] Of this edition, intended for private circulation only, and printed from type on Berkeley Antique laid paper, 950 copies have been printed for America, and 550 for Great Britain. Also, 55 unnumbered copies, for the press. This copy is Number 223 YAMA [THE PIT] A NOVEL IN THREE PARTS BY ALEXANDRA KUPRIN TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY BERNARD GUILBERT GUERNEY “All the horror is in just this, that there is no horror ...” AUTHOR’S DEDICATION I know that many will find this novel immoral and indecent; nevertheless, I dedicate it with all my heart to MOTHERS AND YOUTHS—A. K. TRANSLATOR’S DEDICATION I dedicate the labour of translation, in all humility and sincerity, to K. ANDRAE. B. G. G. Contents INTRODUCTION TRANSLATOR’S NOTE PART ONE CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI CHAPTER XII PART TWO CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIV CHAPTER XV CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER XVII PART THREE CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX INTRODUCTION “With us, you see,” Kuprin makes the reporter Platonov, his mouthpiece, say in Yama, “they write about detectives, about lawyers, about inspectors of the revenue, about pedagogues, about attorneys, about the police, about officers, about sensual ladies, about engineers, about baritones—and really, by God, altogether well—cleverly, with finesse and talent. But, after all, all these people are rubbish, and their life is not life, but some sort of conjured up, spectral, unnecessary delirium of world culture. But there are two singular realities—ancient as humanity itself: the prostitute and the moujik. And about them we know nothing, save some tinsel, gingerbread, debauched depictions in literature...” Tinsel, gingerbread, debauched depictions... Let us consider some of the ways in which this monstrous reality has been approached by various writers. There is, first, the purely sentimental: Prevost’s _Manon Lescaut_. Then there is the slobberingly sentimental: Dumas’ _Dame aux Camélias_. A third is the necrophilically romantic: Louys’ _Aphrodite_. The fertile Balzac has given us no less than two: the purely romantic, in his fascinating portraits of the Fair Imperia; and the romantically realistic, in his _Splendeurs et Misères des Courtisanes_. Reade’s _Peg Woffington_ may be called the literary parallel of the costume drama; Defoe’s _Moll Flanders_ is honestly realistic; Zola’s _Nana_ is rabidly so.