Yama [The Pit], a Novel in Three PartsKuprin, A. I. (Aleksandr Ivanovich)
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Yama [The Pit], a Novel in Three Parts
Kuprin, A. I. (Aleksandr Ivanovich)
Prostitutes -- Russia -- Fiction; Russia -- Fiction; Russian fiction -- Translations into English
And from that very time began all the misfortunes of the Yamkas, which
brought them to ruin. And together with the Yamkas perished also the
house, familiar to us, of the stout, old, pale-eyed Anna Markovna.
CHAPTER II.
The passenger train sped merrily from the south to the north,
traversing golden fields of wheat and beautiful groves of oak,
careering with rumbling upon iron bridges over bright rivers, leaving
behind it whirling clouds of smoke.
In the COUPE of the second class, even with open windows, there was a
fearful stuffiness, and it was hot. The smell of sulphurous smoke
irritated the throat. The rocking and the heat had completely tired out
the passengers, save one, a merry, energetic, mobile Hebrew, splendidly
dressed, accommodating, sociable and talkative. He was travelling with
a young woman, and it was at once apparent, especially through her,
that they were newly-weds; so often did her face flare up with an
unexpected colour at every tenderness of her husband, even the least.
And when she raised her eyelashes to look upon him, her eyes would
shine like stars, and grow humid. And her face was as beautiful as only
the faces of young Hebrew maidens in love can be beautiful—all tenderly
rosy, with rosy lips, rounded out in beautiful innocence, and with eyes
so black that their pupils could not be distinguished from the irises.
Unabashed by the presence of three strange people, he showered his
caresses upon his companion every minute, and, it must be said,
sufficiently coarse ones. With the unceremoniousness of an owner, with
that especial egoism of one in love, who, it would seem, is saying to
the whole universe: “See, how happy we are—this makes you happy also,
isn’t that so?”—he would now pass his hand over her leg, which
resiliently and in relief stood out beneath her dress, now pinch her on
the cheek, now tickle her neck with his stiff, black, turned-up
moustache ... But, even though he did sparkle with delight, there was
still something rapacious, wary, uneasy to be glimpsed in his
frequently winking eyes, in the twitching of the upper lip, and in the
harsh outline of his shaved, square chin, jutting out, with a scarcely
noticeable dent in the middle.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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