Your fathers, husbands, and brothers come to us, and we infect them with all sorts of diseases … Purposely ..
And they in their turn infect you.
Your female superintendents live with the drivers, janitors and policemen, while we are put in a cell if we happen to laugh or joke a little among ourselves.
And so, if you’ve come here as to a theatre, then you must hear the truth out, straight to your face.”
But Tamara calmly stopped her:
“Stop, Jennie, I will tell them myself … Can it be that you really think, baroness, that we are worse than the so-called respectable women?
A man comes to me, pays me two roubles for a visit or five roubles for a night, and I don’t in the least conceal this, from any one in the world … But tell me, baroness, do you possibly know even one married lady with a family who isn’t in secret giving herself up either for the sake of passion to a young man, or for the sake of money to an old one?
I know very well that fifty percent of you are kept by lovers, while the remaining fifty, of those who are older, keep young lads.
I also know that many— ah, how many!— of you cohabit with your fathers, brothers, and even sons, but these secrets you hide in some sort of a hidden casket.
And that’s all the difference between us.
We are fallen, but we don’t lie and don’t pretend, but you all fall, and lie to boot.
Think it over for yourself; now— in whose favour is this difference?”
“Bravo, Tamarochka, that’s the way to serve them!” shouted Manka, without getting up from the floor; dishevelled, fair, curly, resembling at this moment a thirteen-year-old girl.
“Now, now!” urged Jennka as well, flashing with her flaming eyes.
“Why not, Jennechka?
I’ll go further than that.
Out of us scarcely, scarcely one in a thousand has committed abortion.
But all of you several times over.
What?
Or isn’t that the truth?
And those of you who’ve done this, did it not out of desperation or cruel poverty, but you simply were afraid of spoiling your figure and beauty— that’s your sole capital!
Or else you’ve been seeking only beastly carnal pleasure, while pregnancy and feeding interfered with your giving yourself up to it!”
Rovinskaya became confused and uttered in a quick whisper:
“Faites attention, baronne, que dans sa position cette demoiselle est instruite.”[13]
“Figurez-vous, que moi, j’ai aussi remarque cet etrange visage.
Comme si je l’ai deja vu … est-ce en reve? … en demi-delire? Ou dans sa petite enfance?”[14]
“Ne vous donnez pas la peine de chercher dans vos souvenirs, baronne,” Tamara suddenly interposed insolently. “Je puis de suite vous venir aide.
Rappelez-vous seulement Kharkoff, et la chambre d’hotel de Koniakine, l’entrepreneur Solovieitschik, et le tenor di grazzia … A ce moment vous n’etiez pas encore m-me la baronne de … [15] However, let’s drop the French tongue … You were a common chorus girl and served together with me.” “Mais, dites-moi, au nom de dieu, comment vous trouvez vous ici, Mademoiselle Marguerite.”[16]
“Oh, they ask us about that every day.
I just up and came to be here … ”
And with an inimitable cynicism she asked:
“I trust you will pay for the time which we have passed with you?”
“No, may the devil take you!” suddenly shouted out Little White Manka, quickly getting up from the rug.
And suddenly, pulling two gold pieces out of her stocking, she flung them upon the table.
“There, you! ..
I’m giving you that for a cab.
Go away right now, otherwise I’ll break up all the mirrors and bottles here… ”
Rovinskaya got up and said with sincere, warm tears in her eyes:
“Of course, we’ll go away, and the lesson of Mlle. Marguerite will prove of benefit to us.
Your time will be paid for— take care of it, Volodya.
Still, you sang so much for us, that you must allow me to sing for you as well.”
Rovinskaya went up to the piano, took a few chords, and suddenly began to sing the splendid ballad of Dargomyzhsky:
“We parted then with pride— Neither with sighs nor words Proffered I thee reproach of jealousy …
We went apart for aye, Yet only if with thee I might but chance to meet! ..
Ah, that with thee I might but chance to meet!
“I weep not nor complain— To fate I bend my knee…
I know not, if you loved, So greatly wronging me? Yet only if with thee I might but chance to meet! …
Ah, that with thee I might but chance to meet!”
This tender and passionate ballad, executed by a great artiste, suddenly reminded all these women of their first love; of their first fall; of a late leave-taking at a dawn in the spring, in the chill of the morning, when the grass is gray from the dew, while the red sky paints the tips of the birches a rosy colour; of last embraces, so closely entwined, and of the unerring heart’s mournful whispers:
“No, this will not be repeated, this will not be repeated!”