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"Potyómkin, Grigóry Alexándritch, was a statesman, a theologian, a nursling of Katherine's, her offspring, one must say.... But enough of that, my little sir!" Alexyéi Sergyéitch was a very devout man and went to church regularly, although it was beyond his strength.

So long as it is whole and lasts, what beautiful colours play upon it! Red and yellow and blue; all one can say is, ''Tis a rainbow or a diamond! But it soon bursts, and no trace of it remains. And that's what those men were like." "Well, and how about Potyómkin?" I asked one day. Alexyéi Sergyéitch assumed a pompous mien.

"Let the name of Golushkin thunder through the world! As once Suvorov or Potyomkin, then why not now Kapiton Golushkin?" He gave expression to the most extreme views, scoffed at his own Old Believer's faith, ate meat in Lent, played cards, and drank champagne like water. He never got into difficulties, because he said, "Wherever necessary, I have bribed the authorities.

... You say that writers are God's elect. I will not contradict you. Shtcheglov calls me the Potyomkin of literature, and so it is not for me to speak of the thorny path, of disappointments, and so on. I do not know whether I have ever suffered more than shoemakers, mathematicians, or railway guards do; I do not know who speaks through my lips God or someone worse.

Princess Dashkov was his godmother, and Potyomkin his godfather.” “Fyodor Pavlovitch, this is unbearable! You know you’re telling lies and that that stupid anecdote isn’t true. Why are you playing the fool?” cried Miüsov in a shaking voice. “I suspected all my life that it wasn’t true,” Fyodor Pavlovitch cried with conviction. “But I’ll tell you the whole truth, gentlemen. Great elder!