“I am sorry for him...” added Platonov quietly.

Jennka dilated her nostrils.

“But I, now, not the very least bit.”

“That’s wrong...You go away now, young fellow.  When I’ll need you I’ll call out,” said Platonov to the serving-man “Absolutely wrong, Jennechka!  This was an unusually big and forceful man.  Such come only one to the hundreds of thousands.  I don’t respect suicides.  Most frequent of all, these are little boys, who shoot and hang themselves over trifles, like a child that has not been given a piece of candy, and hits itself against the wall to spite those around it.  But before his death I reverently and with sorrow bow my head.  He was a wise, generous, kindly man, attentive to all; and, as you see, too strict to himself.”

“But to me this is absolutely all one,” obstinately contradicted Jennka, “wise or foolish, honest or dishonest, old or young—­I have come to hate them all.  Because—­look upon me—­what am I?  Some sort of universal spittoon, cesspool, privy.  Think of it, Platonov; why, thousands, thousands of people have taken me, clutched me; grunted, snorted over me; and all those who were, and all those who might yet have been on my bed—­oh, how I hate them all!  If I only could, I would sentence them to torture by fire and iron! ...  I would order...”

“You are malicious and proud, Jennie,” said Platonov quietly.

“I was neither malicious nor proud...It’s only now.  I wasn’t ten yet when my own mother sold me; and since that time I’ve been travelling from hand to hand...  If only some one had seen a human being in me!  No! ...  I am vermin, refuse, worse than a beggar, worse than a thief, worse than a murderer! ...  Even a hangman...we have even such coming to the establishment—­and even he would have treated me loftily, with loathing:  I am nothing; I am a public wench!  Do you understand, Sergei Ivanovich, what a horrible word this is?  Pub-lic! ...  This means nobody’s:  not papa’s, not mamma’s, not Russian, not Riyazan, but simply—­public!  And not once did it enter anybody’s head to walk up to me and think:  why, now, this is a human being too; she has a heart and a brain; she thinks of something, feels something; for she’s not made out of wood, and isn’t stuffed with straw, small hay, or excelsior!  And yet, only I feel this.  I, perhaps, am the only one out of all of them who feels the horror of her position; this black, stinking, filthy pit.  But then, all the girls with whom I have met, and with whom I am living right now—­understand, Platonov, understand me!—­ why, they don’t realize anything...  Talking, walking pieces of meat!  And this is even worse than my malice! ...”

“You are right!” said Platonov quietly.  “And this is one of those questions where you’ll always run up against a wall.  No one will help you...”

“No one, no one! ...” passionately exclaimed Jennka.  “Do you remember—­this was while you were there:  a student carried away our Liubka...”