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 crippled like a
cabby's 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! To-day 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
'whats,' '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 and started in telling him lots and lots about
the life here, which I do not tell you for fear of boring you. I begged
him to utilize my material. He heard me out with great attention, and
this is what he said, literally: 'Don't get offended, Platonov, if I
tell you that there's almost not a single person of those I have met
during my life, who wouldn't thrust themes for novels and stories upon
me, or teach me as to what ought to be written up. That material which
you have just communicated to me is truly unencompassable in its
significance and weightiness. But what shall I do with it? In order to
write a colossal book such as the one you have in mind, the words of
others do not suffice--even though they be the most exact--even
observations, made with a little note-book and a bit of pencil, do not
suffice. One must grow accustomed to this life, without being cunningly
wise, without any ulterior thoughts of writing. Then a terrific book
will result.'

"His words discouraged me and at the same time gave me wings. Since
that time I believe, that now, not soo