Anything may happen to a man, even what he’s never dreamed of . . . especially in the days when . . . well, in the days when we used to cram Cornelius Nepos together.
And, Vanya, be sure of one thing: though Masloboev may have strayed from the true path his heart is still unchanged, it’s only circumstances that have altered.
Though I may be in the soot I’m no dirtier than the rest.
I set up for being a doctor, and I trained as a teacher of Russian literature, and I wrote an article on Gogol, and thought of going to the golddiggings, and meant to get married. A living soul longs for something sweet in life, and she consented, though I was so poor I had nothing to tempt a cat with.
I was on the point of borrowing a pair of good boots for the marriage ceremony, for mine had been in holes for eighteen months. . . . But I didn’t get married.
She married a teacher and I went as a countinghouse clerk, not a commercial countinghouse, but just a countinghouse.
But then the tune changed.
Years have rolled by, and though I’m not in the service, I make enough to jog along: I take bribes without ruth and yet stand firm for the truth. I hunt with the hounds and I run with the hare.
I have principles. I know, for instance, that one can’t fight singlehanded, and I mind my own business.
My business is chiefly in the confidential line, you understand.”
“You’re not some sort of detective, are you?”
“No, not exactly a detective, but I do take up jobs, partly professionally, and partly on my own account, It’s this way Vanya: I drink vodka.
But as I haven’t drunk my wits away, I know what lies before me.
My time is past; there’s no washing a black nag white.
One thing I will say: if the man in me were not echoing still I should not have come up to you today, Vanya.
You’re right, I’d met you and seen you before, and many a time I longed to speak, but still I didn’t dare, and put it off.
I’m not worthy of you.
And you were right, Vanya, when you said that I spoke this time only because I was drunk and though this is all awful rot we’ll finish with me now.
We’d better talk of you.
Well, my dear soul, I’ve read it!
I’ve read. it through.
I’m talking of your firstborn.
When I read it, I almost became a respectable man, my friend.
I was almost becoming one, but I thought better of it, and preferred to remain a disreputable man.
So there it is. . . .”
And he said much more.
He got more and more drunk, and became very maudlin, almost lachrymose.
Masloboev had always been a capital fellow, but cunning, and as it were precocious; he had been a shrewd, crafty, artful dodger from his schooldays upwards, 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 topsyturvy 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 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 fancy what one likes, you know, but you can’t fancy yourself a Dante, or a Frederick Barbarossa, in the first place because you want to be yourself, and secondly because all wishing is forbidden you; for you’re a literary hack.
I have fancy, but you have reality.
Listen, tell me openly straightforwardly, speaking as a brother (if you won’t you’ll offend and humiliate me for ten years), don’t you want money?
I’ve plenty.
Oh, don’t make faces.
Take some of it, pay off the entrepreneurs, throw off the yoke, then, when you’re secure of a year’s living, settle down to a cherished idea, write a great book.
Eh?
What do you say?”
“Listen, Masloboev!
I appreciate your brotherly offer, but I can’t make any answer at present, and the reason why is a long story.
There are circumstances.
But I promise that I’ll tell you everything afterwards, like a brother.