He had no principles, no plans, no prejudices, no
reverences. If he wished to sleep for a week he would do so, if he
wished to eat for a week he would do so. If he died to-morrow he did
not care ... it was all so absurd that it was not worth while to give
it any attention. He would grow very fat, he would die--he would love
women, play cards, drink, quarrel, give his life for a sentimental
moment, pour every farthing of his possessions into the lap of a
friend, incur debts which he would not pay, quarrel wildly with a man
about a rouble, remember things that you would expect him to forget,
forget everything that he should remember--a pagan, a saint, a
blackguard, a hero--anything you please so long as you do not take it
seriously.
This morning he was dirty and looked as though he had slept for many
nights without taking off his clothes--unshaven, his shirt open
showing his hairy chest, his eyes blinking in the light.
"That's good," he said, seeing us. "I've got to be off, leaving the
place to you.
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