days in her father's house, when she used to go to school and the
neighbour's son watched for her on the way, declaring that he would
love her as long as he lived, that he would devote his life to her, and
when they vowed to love one another for ever and be married as soon as
they were grown up! No, Liza, it would be happy for you if you were to
die soon of consumption in some corner, in some cellar like that woman
just now. In the hospital, do you say? You will be lucky if they take
you, but what if you are still of use to the madam here? Consumption is
a queer disease, it is not like fever. The patient goes on hoping till
the last minute and says he is all right. He deludes himself And that
just suits your madam. Don't doubt it, that's how it is; you have sold
your soul, and what is more you owe money, so you daren't say a word.
But when you are dying, all will abandon you, all will turn away from
you, for then there will be nothing to get from you. What's more, they
will reproach you for cumbering the place, for being so long over
dying. However you beg you won't get a drink of water without abuse:
'Whenever are you going off, you nasty hussy, you won't let us sleep
with your moaning, you make the gentlemen sick.' That's true, I have
heard such things said myself. They will thrust you dying into the
filthiest corner in the cellar--in the damp and darkness; what will
your thoughts be, lying there alone? When you die, strange hands will
lay you out, with grumbling and impatience; no one will bless you, no
one will sigh for you, they only want to get rid of you as soon as may
be; they will buy a coffin, take you to the grave as they did that poor
woman today, and celebrate your memory at the tavern. In the grave,
sleet, filth, wet snow--no need to put themselves out for you--'Let her
down, Vanuha; it's just like her luck--even here, she is head-foremost,
the hussy. Shorten the cord, you rascal.' 'It's all right as it is.'
'All right, is it? Why, she's on her side! She was a fellow-creature,
after all! But, never mind, throw the earth on her.' And they won't
care to waste much time quarrelling over you. They will scatter the
wet blue clay as quick as they can and go off to the tavern ... and
there your memory on earth will end; other women have children to go to
their graves, fathers, husbands. While for you neither tear, nor sigh,
nor remembrance; no one in the whole world will ever come to you, your