RUDIN
were, the living vessels of eternal truth, her instruments destined for some great . . . Doesn’t it all seem very ridiculous to you?’
‘Not the least!’ replied Alexandra Pavlovna slowly; ‘why should you think so? I don’t altogether understand you, but I don’t think it ridiculous.’
‘We have had time to grow wiser since then, of course,’ Lezhnyov continued, ‘all that may seem childish to us now. . . . But, I repeat, we all owed a great deal to Rudin then. Pokorsky was incomparably nobler than he, no question about it; Pokorsky breathed fire and strength into all of us; but he was often depressed and silent. He was nervous and not robust; but when he did stretch his wings—good heavens! —what a flight! up to the very height of the blue heavens! And there was a great deal of pettiness in Rudin, handsome and stately as he was; he was a gossip, indeed, and he loved to have a hand in everything, arranging and explaining everything. His fussy activity was inexhaustible—he was a diplomatist by nature. I speak of him as I knew him then. But unluckily he has not altered. On the other hand,
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