More than once I tried to question Alexey Sergeitch about those far-away times, about the people who made up the empress’s circle.... But for the most part he edged off the subject. ‘What’s the use of talking about old times?’ he used to say ... ‘it’s only making one’s self miserable, remembering that then one was a fine young fellow, and now one hasn’t a tooth left in one’s head. And what is there to say? They were good old times ... but there, enough of them! And as for those folks--you were asking, you troublesome boy, about the lucky ones!--haven’t you seen how a bubble comes up on the water? As long as it lasts and is whole, what colours play upon it! Red, and blue, and yellow--a perfect rainbow or diamond you’d say it was! Only it soon bursts, and there’s no trace of it left. And so it was with those folks.’ ‘But how about Potiomkin?’ I once inquired. Alexey Sergeitch looked grave. ‘Potiomkin, Grigory Alexandrovitch, was a statesman, a theologian, a pupil of Catherine’s, her cherished creation, one must say.... But enough of that, little sir!’ Alexey Sergeitch was a very devout man, and, though it was a great effort, he attended church regularly. Superstition was not noticeable in him; he laughed at omens, the evil eye, and such ‘nonsense,’ but he did not like a hare to run across his path, and to meet a priest was not altogether agreeable to him. For all that, he was very respectful to clerical persons, and went up to receive their blessing, and even kissed the priest’s hand every time, but he was not willing to enter into conversation with them. ‘Such an extremely strong odour comes from them,’ he explained: ‘and I, poor sinner, am fastidious beyond reason; they’ve such long hair, and all oily, and they comb it out on all sides--they think they show me respect by so doing, and they clear their throats so loudly when they talk--from shyness may be, or I dare say they want to show respect in that way too. And besides, they make one think of one’s last hour. And, I don’t know how it is, but I still want to go on living. Only, my little sir, don’t you repeat my words; we must respect the clergy--it’s only fools that don’t respect them; and I’m to blame to babble nonsense in my old age.’