Yama - Aleksandr Kuprin (spanish books to read .TXT) 📗

our feet. But an artist will come, and he will look over them carefully, and he will pick them up. And suddenly he will so skillfully turn in the sun a minute bit of life that we shall all cry out: ‘Oh, my God! But I myself⁠—myself⁠—have seen this with my own eyes. Only it simply did not enter my head to turn my close attention upon it.’ But our Russian artists of the word⁠—the most conscientious and sincere artists in the whole world⁠—for some reason have up to this time passed over prostitution and the brothel. Why? Really, it is difficult for me to answer that. Perhaps because of squeamishness, perhaps because of pusillanimity, out of fear of being signalized as a pornographic writer; finally, from the apprehension that our gossiping criticism will identify the artistic work of the writer with his personal life and will start rummaging in his dirty linen. Or perhaps they can find neither the time, nor the self-denial, nor the self-possession to plunge in head first into this life and to watch it right up close, without prejudice, without sonorous phrases, without a sheepish pity, in all its monstrous simplicity and everyday activity. Oh, what a tremendous, staggering and truthful book would result!”

“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,12 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 muzhik 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 muzhik. 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.13 What has it given us about the muzhik 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 ⁠…’ ”14 quietly prompted Likhonin.

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

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

Platonov, who up to now had been speaking as though unwillingly, at a slow rate, suddenly grew heated:

“A hundred times have I heard this opinion, a hundred times! And it is entirely an untruth. Underneath the coarse and obscene profession, underneath the foulest oaths⁠—about one’s mother⁠—underneath the drunken, hideous exterior⁠—Sonechka Marmeladova still lives! The fate of the Russian prostitute⁠—oh, what a tragic, piteous, bloody, ludicrous and stupid path it is! Here everything has been juxtaposed: the Russian God, Russian breadth and unconcern, Russian despair in a fall, Russian lack of culture, Russian naivete, Russian patience, Russian shamelessness. Why, all of them, whom you take into bedrooms⁠—look upon them, look upon them well⁠—why, they are all children; why, each of them is but eleven years old. Fate has thrust them upon prostitution and since then they live in some sort of a strange, fairy-like, toy existence, without developing, without being enriched by experience, naive, trusting, capricious, not knowing what they will say and do half an hour later⁠—altogether like children. This radiant and ludicrous childishness I have seen in the very oldest wenches, fallen as low as low can be, broken-winded and spavined like cabbies’ nags. And never does this impotent pity, this useless commiseration toward human suffering die within them⁠ ⁠… For example⁠ ⁠…”

Platonov looked over all the persons sitting with a slow gaze, and suddenly, waving his hand despondently, said in a tired voice:

“However⁠ ⁠… The devil take it all! Today I have spoken enough for ten years⁠ ⁠… And all of it to no purpose.”

“But really, Sergei Ivanich, why shouldn’t you try to describe all this yourself?” asked Yarchenko. “Your attention is so vitally concentrated on this question.”

“I did try!” answered Platonov with a cheerless smile. “But nothing came of it. I started writing and at once became entangled in various ‘what’s,’ ‘which’s,’ ‘was’s.’ The epithets prove flat. The words grow cold on the page. It’s all a cud of some sort. Do you know, Terekhov was here once, while passing through⁠ ⁠… You know⁠ ⁠… The well-known one⁠ ⁠… I came to him