RUDIN
sponded with him for some time; in his last letter he informed me he was leaving Simbirsk—he did not say where he was going—and since then I have heard nothing of him.’
‘He is all right!’ put in Pigasov. ‘He is staying somewhere sermonising. That gentleman will always find two or three adherents everywhere, to listen to him open-mouthed and lend him money. You will see he will end by dying in some out-of-the-way corner in the arms of an old maid in a wig, who will believe he is the greatest genius in the world.’
‘You speak very harshly of him,’ remarked Bassistoff, in a displeased undertone.
‘Not a bit harshly,’ replied Pigasov; ‘but perfectly fairly. In my opinion, he is simply nothing else than a sponge. I forgot to tell you,’ he continued, turning to Lezhnyov, ‘that I have made the acquaintance of that Terlahov, with whom Rudin travelled abroad. Yes! Yes! What he told me of him, you cannot imagine—it’s simply screaming! It’s a remarkable fact that all Rudin’s friends and admirers become in time his enemies.’
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