, the swaying of her figure as she slouched
along, forced himself to sigh, but did not succeed in rousing a
feeling of regret. His sister had become a stranger to him. And he
was a stranger to her. Anyway, she did not once look round.

Going back to his room, Vladimir Semyonitch at once sat down to the
table and began to work at his article.

I never saw Vera Semyonovna again. Where she is now I do not know.
And Vladimir Semyonitch went on writing his articles, laying wreaths
on coffins, singing _Gaudeamus_, busying himself over the Mutual
Aid Society of Moscow Journalists.

He fell ill with inflammation of the lungs; he was ill in bed for
three months--at first at home, and afterwards in the Golitsyn
Hospital. An abscess developed in his knee. People said he ought
to be sent to the Crimea, and began getting up a collection for
him. But he did not go to the Crimea--he died. We buried him in
the Vagankovsky Cemetery, on the left side, where artists and
literary men are buried.

One day we writers were sitting in the Tatars' restaurant. I mentioned
that I had lately been in the Vagankovsky Cemetery and had seen
Vladimir Semyonitch's grave there. It was utterly neglected and
almost indistinguishable from the rest of the ground, the cross had
fallen; it was necessary to collect a few roubles to put it in
order.

But they listened to what I said unconcernedly, made no answer, and
I could not collect a farthing. No one remembered Vladimir Semyonitch.
He was utterly forgotten.

MIRE

I

GRACEFULLY swaying in the saddle, a young man wearing the snow-white
tunic of an officer rode into the great yard of the vodka distillery
belonging to the heirs of M. E. Rothstein. The sun smiled carelessly
on the lieutenant's little stars, on the white trunks of the
birch-trees, on the heaps of broken glass scattered here and there
in the yard. The radiant, vigorous beauty of a summer day lay over
everything, and nothing hindered the snappy young green leaves from
dancing gaily and winking at the clear blue sky. Even the dirty and
soot-begrimed appearance of the bricksheds and the stifling fumes
of the distillery did not spoil the general good impression. The
lieutenant sprang gaily out of the saddle, handed over his horse
to a man who ran up, and stroking with his finger his delicate black
moustaches, went in at the front door. On the top step of the old
but light and softly carpeted staircase he was met by a maidservant
with a