Then very soon there would
come a rift. How could that Russian passionate longing for justified
idealism be realised? Once more there were faults, spots on the sun,
selfishness, bad temper, narrowness, what you please. And at every
fresh disappointment would my companions be as surprised as though the
same thing had not happened to them only a fortnight ago.
"But only last week you liked him so much!"
"How could I know that he would hold such opinions? Never in my life
have I been more surprised."
So upon these little billows sailed the stout bark of Russian
idealism, rising, falling, never overwhelmed, always bravely
confident, never seeking for calm waters, refusing them indeed for
their very placidity.
But in the midst of these shifting fortunes there were certain
alliances and relationships that never changed. Amongst these was the
alliance of Nikitin and Andrey Vassilievitch. Friendship it could not
be called. Nikitin, although apparently he was kindly to the little
man, yielded him no intimacy.
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