ve been so well built up."

"Enough of joking!" incredulously retorted Lichonin. "Then what compels
you to pass days and nights here? Were you a writer--it would be a
different matter. It's easy to find an explanation; well, you're
gathering types or something ... observing life ... After the manner of
that German professor who lived for three years with monkeys, in order
to study closely their language and manners. But you yourself said that
you don't indulge in writing?"

"It isn't that I don't indulge, but I simply don't know how--I can't."

"We'll write that down. Now let's suppose another thing--that you come
here as an apostle of a better, honest life, in the nature of a, now,
saviour of perishing souls. You know, as in the dawn of Christianity
certain holy fathers instead of standing on a column for thirty years
or living in a cave in the woods, went to the market places, into
houses of mirth, to the harlots and scaramuchios. But you aren't
inclined that way."

"I'm not."

"Then why, the devil take it, do you hang around here? I can see very
well that a great deal here is revolting and oppressive and painful to
your own self. For example, this fool quarrel with Boris or this flunky
who beats a woman, and--, in general, the constant contemplation of
every kind of filth, lust, bestiality, vulgarity, drunkenness. Well,
now, since you say so--I believe that you don't give yourself up to
lechery. But then, still more incomprehensible to me is your MODUS
VIVENDI, to express myself in the style of leading articles."

The reporter did not answer at once:

"You see," he began speaking slowly, with pauses, as though for the
first time lending ear to his thoughts and weighing them. "You see, I'm
attracted and interested in this life by its ... how shall I express
it? ... its fearful, stark truth. Do you understand, it's as though all
the conventional coverings were ripped off it. There is no falsehood,
no hypocrisy, no sanctimoniousness, there are no compromises of any
sort, neither with public opinion, nor with the importunate authority
of our forefathers, nor with one's own conscience. No illusions of any
kind, nor any kind of embellishments! Here she is--'I! A public woman,
a common vessel, a cloaca for the drainage of the city's surplus lust.
Come to me any one who wills--thou shalt meet no denial, therein is my
service. But for a second of this sensuality in haste--thou shalt pay
in money, revulsion, disease an