“Speak on, Jennechka...”
“And so, when I found out that I was sick, I almost went out of my mind from wrath; I choked from wrath ...I thought: and here’s the end; therefore, there’s no more use in pitying, there’s nothing to grieve about, nothing to expect...The lid! ... But for all that I have borne—can it be that there’s no paying back for it? Can it be that there’s no justice in the world? Can it be that I can’t even feast myself with revenge?—for that I have never known love; that of family life I know only by hearsay; that, like a disgustin’, nasty little dog, they call me near, pat me and then with a boot over the head—get out!—that they made me over, from a human being, equal to all of them, no more foolish than all those I’ve met; made me over into a floor mop, some sort of a sewer pipe for their filthy pleasures? ...Ugh! ... Is it possible that for all of this I must take even such a disease with gratitude as well? ... Or am I a slave? ... A dumb object? ... A pack horse? ... And so, Platonov, it was just then that I resolved to infect them all: young, old, poor, rich, handsome, hideous—all, all, all! ...”
Platonov, who had already long since put his plate away from him, was looking at her with astonishment, and even more—almost with horror. He, who had seen in life much of the painful, the filthy, at times even of the bloody—he grew frightened with an animal fright before this intensity of enormous, unvented hatred. Coming to himself, he said:
“One great writer tells of such a case. The Prussians conquered the French and lorded it over them in every possible way: shot the men, violated the women, pillaged the houses, burned down the fields...And so one handsome woman—a Frenchwoman, very handsome,—having become infected, began out of spite to infect all the Germans who happened to fall into her embraces. She made ill whole hundreds, perhaps even thousands...And when she was dying in a hospital, she recalled this with joy and with pride...[25] But then, those were enemies, trampling upon her fatherland and slaughtering her brothers...But you, you, Jennechka! ...”
[25] This story is Lit. No. 29, by Guy de Maupassant.—Trans.
“But I—all, just all! Tell me, Sergei Ivanovich, only tell me on your conscience: if you were to find in the street a child, whom some one had dishonoured, had abused...well, let’s say, had stuck its eyes out, cut its ears off—and then you were to find out that this man is at this minute walking past you, and that only God alone, if only He exists, is looking at you this minute from heaven—what would you do?”
“Don’t know,” answered Platonov, dully and downcast; but he paled, and his fingers underneath the table convulsively clenched into fists, “Perhaps I would kill him...”
“Not ‘perhaps,’ but certainly! I know you, I sense you. Well, and now think: every one of us has been abused so, when we were children! ... Children! ...” passionately moaned out Jennka and covered her eyes for a moment with her palm. “Why, it comes to me, you also spoke of this at one time, in our place—wasn’t it on that same evening before the Trinity? ... Yes, children—foolish, trusting, blind, greedy, frivolous...And we cannot tear ourselves out of our harness...where are we to go? what are we to do? ... And please, don’t you think it, Sergei Ivanovich—that the spite within me is strong only against those who wronged just me, me personally...No, against all our guests in general; all these cavaliers, from little to big...Well, and so I have resolved to avenge myself and my sisters. Is that good or no? ...”
“Jehnechka, really I don’t know...I can’t...I dare not say anything...I don’t understand.”
“But even that’s not the main thing...For the main thing is this: I infected them, and did not feel anything—no pity, no remorse, no guilt before God or my fatherland. Within me was only joy, as in a hungry wolf that has managed to get at blood...But yesterday something happened which even I can’t understand. A cadet came to me, altogether a little bit of a lad, silly, with yellow around his mouth...He used to come to me from still last winter...And then suddenly I had pity on him... Not because he was very handsome and very young; and not because he had always been very polite—even tender, if you will...No, both the one and the other had come to me, but I did not spare them: with enjoyment I marked them off, just like cattle, with a red-hot brand ...But this one I suddenly pitied...I myself don’t understand—why? I can’t make it out. It seemed to me, that it would be all the same as stealing money from a little simpleton, a little idiot; or hitting a blind man, or cutting a sleeper’s throat...if he only were some dried-up marasmus or a nasty little brute, or a lecherous old fellow, I would not have stopped. But he was healthy, robust, with chest and arms like a statue’s...and I could not... I gave him his money back, showed him my disease; in a word, I acted like a fool among fools. He went away from me...burst into tears...And now since last evening I haven’t slept. I walk around as in a fog...Therefore—I’m thinking right now—therefore, that which, I meditated; my dream to infect them all; to infect their fathers, mothers, sisters, brides—even all the world—therefore, all this was folly, an empty fantasy, since I have stopped? ... Once again, I don’t understand anything ...Sergei Ivanovich, you are so wise, you have seen so much of life—help me, then, to find myself now!...”