there really was,—everybody acknowledged it. But it was something unfinished, like a phrase half spoken, a picture half painted, furniture unpolished and unvarnished.
"At last, one more bent! My old talent for music awoke in me, and I rushed at once to a musical school. I, the future composer, was studying harmony and counterpoint, and again everybody found that I had talent. The world of sounds swallowed me. I wanted to produce and create, and before I had reached a fugue, I was writing little songs and publishing them— Ah, I did not finish here either. My two songs had success, they were sung at concerts, yes, sir, and I decided I could write an opera. What is the use learning when you have talent? That is a good Russian reason—
"And do you know what I am now? I am a man without any definite specialty. I am a Russian who has a thousand talents and who is unfit for any definite business. I can play on the violin a quadrille from Fair Helen, I can write a sonnet, I can discuss Russian literature and history, I know a few things about Smith, Mill, and Marx, I have some ideas about the blood corpuscle, I possess a literary style, can compose a song,—and to sum all up, I am head-scribe in a bureau, of course, through protection. Am I not the same Iván? We are both Russians. Both he and I can do everything, and yet are good for nothing. Both of us have a thousand talents apiece. Well? He is the husband of my cook, and I—am head-scribe! The positions are different, but the sense of them is the same— Yes, sir!"
Here Bobróv rolled up a fat cigarette, gave a few puffs at it, took his cap, and bid his host farewell.
Semén Yákovlevich Nádson. (1862-1887.)
