From Necropolis: Gorky

 I lived a good distance away from Gorky. Walking the streets at night was exhausting and not without its dangers: a person could get robbed. For this reason, it was not uncommon for me to stay the night; a bed would be made up for me on the divan that stood in the dining room. Late in the evening, the hustle and bustle would die down. The hour would arrive for the family to take their tea. I served as an audience for Gorky’s much-loved reminiscences, the ones that he always trotted out when he wished to “charm” his new acquaintances. Later on, I would learn that these stories were rather limited in number and that, though they retained the appearance of improvisations, they would repeat themselves verbatim, year after year. More than once, I came across character sketches written by people who had happened to visit Gorky’s at one time or another and each time I would laugh when I arrived at the stereotypical phrase: “Alexei Maximovich’s thoughts unexpectedly turn toward the past, and he involuntarily gives himself over to his reminiscences.” In any case, these false improvisations were magnificently rendered. I would listen to them with great pleasure, without understanding why the rest of his audience would be winking at one another and disappearing off to their own rooms one by one. Later on—though now I repent of it—I would do the exact same thing myself, but, in those days, I relished the nocturnal hours when Gorky and I would remain alone together beside the long-cold samovar. We gradually grew closer to each other in those hours.