The Saturday evening post . they seeyou! They have forgotten me, said Sergius. They haveforgotten everything that matters to Russia, except theirown intrigues and dishonor. They have forgotten theirown souls. You have forgotten something too, I said. An oldschool friend. He stared at me hard, a puzzled look in his black eyes,and then grasped my hands, and laughed in his old,whimsical way, which I had known as a boy. Good Lord! he said in English. Old Robin Good-fellow! So he remembered the nickname by which I had beenknown at school, though for him those English days musthave seemed like a lif
The Saturday evening post . they seeyou! They have forgotten me, said Sergius. They haveforgotten everything that matters to Russia, except theirown intrigues and dishonor. They have forgotten theirown souls. You have forgotten something too, I said. An oldschool friend. He stared at me hard, a puzzled look in his black eyes,and then grasped my hands, and laughed in his old,whimsical way, which I had known as a boy. Good Lord! he said in English. Old Robin Good-fellow! So he remembered the nickname by which I had beenknown at school, though for him those English days musthave seemed like a lifetime ago in another world. Thatthought came to him then, for he gave a queer groan andpassed his hand over his forehead. That boy who was Sergius Kovalevsky is dead. Hewas a dreamer of dreams, do you remember? He believedin the progress of humanity and the divine power ofleadership! I, who bear his name, see only the brutalrealities of life and its incurable stupidity. He turned to Vera Ivanova, again speaking in Where can we meet so that I can talk to you as I wantto talk? Here it is impossible—in this foul place. It will be dangerous everywhere, said the girl. Forthe love of God, Sergius, get away from Constantinople!For you it is a death trap. Kovalevsky smiled and shrugged his shoulders in thecurious, sulky way which I remembered from his boyhood. For me it is the same everywhere, and makes nodifference. Somewhere—in Paris or Vienna or London orhere—I shall get stabbed or shot by one of our countrymenin exile. Kovalevskys corpse—a good sight for the eyes ofRussian aristocrats! For a few weeks this Kovalevsky wasthe great Russian patriot. Crowds pressed about him tokiss his hands, to touch his tunic. That made his namestink to people of his own class. Now the patriot is a pariahdog and any Russian would kick him to death. What deesit matter? It matters to me, said Vera Ivanova. Still? asked Sergius. You do not shrink from meas a traitor or murderer? You pl
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