And at every fresh disappointment would my companions be as surprised as though the same thing had not happened to them only a fortnight ago.
"But only last week you liked him so much!" "How could I know that he would hold such opinions?
Never in my life have I been more surprised." So upon these little billows sailed the stout bark of Russian idealism, rising, falling, never overwhelmed, always bravely confident, never seeking for calm waters, refusing them indeed for their very placidity.
But in the midst of these shifting fortunes there were certain alliances and relationships that never changed.

Amongst these was the alliance of Nikitin and Andrey Vassilievitch.

Friendship it could not be called.

Nikitin, although apparently he was kindly to the little man, yielded him no intimacy.

It seemed to us a very one-sided business, depending partly upon Andrey Vassilievitch's continual assertions that Nikitin was "his oldest friend and the closest friend of his wife," that "Nikitin was one of the most remarkable men in the world," that "only his intimate friends could know how remarkable he was"; partly too upon the dog-like capacity of Andrey Vassilievitch to fetch and carry for his friend, to put himself indeed to the greatest inconvenience.