but he really had a good heart; he was a lost man. Among Russians there are many such. They often have great abilities, but everything seems topsy-turvy in them, and what’s more they are quite capable of acting against their conscience in certain cases through weakness, and not only come to ruin, but know beforehand that they are on the road to ruin. Masloboev, for instance, was drowning in vodka.
“One more word now, friend,” he went with her, he would
sanction everything at oncehe answered.and were to spend only half an hour on. “I heard what a noise your fame made at first; I read several criticisms on you afterwards. (I really did; you imagine I never read anything.) I met you afterwards in shabby boots, in the mud without goulashes, with a battered hat, and I drew my own conclusions. You’re going in for being a journalist now, eh?”
“Yes, Masloboev.”
“Joined the literary hacks, I suppose?”
“That’s about it.”
“Well, I tell you what then, my boy: drinking’s better. Here I drink; I lie on the sofa (and I have a capital sofa with springs), and I imagine myself Homer, or Dante, or some Frederick Barbarossa — one can , you know,
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