“Let me sing one song, too. It’s sung by thieves and badger queens in the drink shops on our Moldavanka and Peresip.”
And in a horrible bass, in a rusty and unyielding voice, she began to sing, making the most incongruous gestures, but, evidently, imitating some cabaret cantatrice of the third calibre that she had sometime seen:
“Ah, I’ll go to Dukovka,
Sit down at the table,
Now I throw my hat off,
Toss it under table.
Then I athk my dearie,
‘What will you drink, sweet?’
But all the answer that she makes:
‘My head aches fit to split.’
‘I ain’t a-athking you
What your ache may be,
But I am a-athking you
What your drink may be:
Will it be beer, or for wine shall I call,
Or for violet wine, or nothing else at all?’”
And all would have turned out well, if suddenly Little White Manka, in only her chemise and in white lace drawers, had not burst into the cabinet. Some merchant, who the night before had arranged a paradisaical night, was carousing with her, and the ill-fated Benedictine, which always acted upon the girl with the rapidity of dynamite, had brought her into the usual quarrelsome condition. She was no longer “Little Manka” and “Little White Manka,” but she was “Manka the Scandaliste.” Having run into the cabinet, she suddenly, from unexpectedness, fell down on the floor, and, lying on her back, burst into such sincere laughter that all the rest burst out laughing as well. Yes. But this laughter was not prolonged ... Manka suddenly sat up on the floor and began to shout:
“Hurrah! new wenches have joined our place!”
This was altogether an unexpected thing. The baroness did a still greater tactlessness. She said:
“I am a patroness of a convent for fallen girls, and therefore, as a part of my duty, I must gather information about you.”
But here Jennka instantly flared up:
“Get out of here right away, you old fool! You rag! You floor mop! ... Your Magdalene asylums—they’re worse than a prison. Your secretaries use us, like dogs carrion. 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: