“But they do write!” unwillingly remarked Ramses.

“They do write,” wearily repeated Platonov in the same tone as he.  “But it is all either a lie, or theatrical effects for children of tender years, or else a cunning symbolism, comprehensible only to the sages of the future.  But the life itself no one as yet has touched.  One big writer—­a man with a crystal-pure soul and a remarkable talent for delineation—­once approached this theme, [Footnote:  The reference here is most probably to Chekhov.—­ Trans.] and then all that could catch the eye of an outsider was reflected in his soul, as in a wondrous mirror.  But he could not decide to lie to and to frighten people.  He only looked upon the coarse hair of the porter, like that of a dog, and reflected:  ‘But, surely, even he had a mother.’  He passed with his wise, exact gaze over the faces of the prostitutes and impressed them on his mind.  But that which he did not know he did not dare to write.  It is remarkable, that this same writer, enchanting with his honesty and truthfulness, has looked at the moujik as well, more than once.  But he sensed that both the tongue and the turn of mind, as well as the soul of the people, were for him dark and incomprehensible ...  And he, with an amazing tact, modestly went around the soul of the people, but refracted all his fund of splendid observation through the eyes of townsfolk.  I have brought this up purposely.  With us, you see, they write about detectives, about lawyers, about inspectors of the revenue, about pedagogues, about attorneys, about the police, about officers, about sensual ladies, about engineers, about baritones—­and really, by God, altogether well—­cleverly, with finesse and talent.  But, after all, all these people, are rubbish, and their life is not life but some sort of conjured up, spectral, unnecessary delirium of world culture.  But there are two singular realities—­ancient as humanity itself:  the prostitute and the moujik.  And about them we know nothing save some tinsel, gingerbread, debauched depictions in literature.  I ask you:  what has Russian literature extracted out of all the nightmare of prostitution?  Sonechka Marmeladova alone. [Footnote:  The heroine of Dostoievsky’s “Crime and Punishment.”  —­Trans.] What has it given us about the moujik save odious, false, nationalistic pastorals?  One, altogether but one, but then, in truth, the greatest work in all the world—­a staggering tragedy, the truthfulness of which takes the breath away and makes the hair stand on end.  You know what I am speaking of ...”

“‘The little claw is sunk in...’” [Footnote:  “The little claw is sunk in, the whole bird is bound to perish”—­a folk proverb used by Tolstoi as a sub-title to his “The Power of Darkness.”—­Trans.] quietly prompted Lichonin.

“Yes,” answered the reporter, and looked kindly at the student with gratefulness.

“But as regards Sonechka—­why, this is an abstract type,” remarked Yarchenko with assurance.  “A psychological scheme, so to speak ...”