talent even where it was absent, his perpetual enthusiasm, his pulse
that went at one hundred and twenty a minute, his ignorance of life,
the genuinely feminine flutter with which he threw himself into
concerts and literary evenings for the benefit of destitute students,
the way in which he gravitated towards the young--all this would
have created for him the reputation of a writer even if he had not
written his articles.

He was one of those writers to whom phrases like, "We are but few,"
or "What would life be without strife? Forward!" were pre-eminently
becoming, though he never strove with any one and never did go
forward. It did not even sound mawkish when he fell to discoursing
of ideals. Every anniversary of the university, on St. Tatiana's
Day, he got drunk, chanted _Gaudeamus_ out of tune, and his beaming
and perspiring countenance seemed to say: "See, I'm drunk; I'm
keeping it up!" But even that suited him.

Vladimir Semyonitch had genuine faith in his literary vocation and
his whole programme. He had no doubts, and was evidently very well
pleased with himself. Only one thing grieved him--the paper for
which he worked had a limited circulation and was not very influential.
But Vladimir Semyonitch believed that sooner or later he would
succeed in getting on to a solid magazine where he would have scope
and could display himself--and what little distress he felt on
this score was pale beside the brilliance of his hopes.

Visiting this charming man, I made the acquaintance of his sister,
Vera Semyonovna, a woman doctor. At first sight, what struck me
about this woman was her look of exhaustion and extreme ill-health.
She was young, with a good figure and regular, rather large features,
but in comparison with her agile, elegant, and talkative brother
she seemed angular, listless, slovenly, and sullen. There was
something strained, cold, apathetic in her movements, smiles, and
words; she was not liked, and was thought proud and not very
intelligent.

In reality, I fancy, she was resting.

"My dear friend," her brother would often say to me, sighing and
flinging back his hair in his picturesque literary way, "one must
never judge by appearances! Look at this book: it has long ago been
read. It is warped, tattered, and lies in the dust uncared for; but
open it, and it will make you weep and turn pale. My sister is like
that book. Lift the cover and peep into her soul, and you will be
horror-stricken. Vera pas