You are the only person of whom I should care to ask such a favour.
Will you come? I hardly think it will be for many hours."
So then Short was right; there was a woman at the bottom of Kosinski's
life; and simultaneously with this idea there flashed across my brain a
feeling of shame at having for one instant entertained a mean thought of
my friend. "I will come," I answered; "you did well to count on my
friendship." We hurried on for several minutes in silence. Then again
Kosinski spoke:
"I had best tell you a little how matters stand," he said. "I am not fond
of talking about private concerns, but you have a right to know. Eudoxia
has lived with me for the past two years. I brought her over with me from
America. She has been suffering with consumption all this while, and I do
not think she will last the night."
"Is she a comrade?" I ventured to inquire.
"Oh, no. She hates Anarchists; she hates me. It will be a blessing to
herself when she is laid to rest at last. She was the wife of my dearest
friend, perhaps my only friend outside the Cause. Vassili had a great
intellect, but his character was weak in some respects. He was full of
noble ambitions; he had one of the most powerful minds I have known, a
quite extraordinary faculty for grasping abstract ideas. I was first drawn
towards him by hearing him argue at a students' meeting. He was
maintaining a fatalistic paradox: the total uselessness of effort, and the
vanity of all our distinctions between good and bad.
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