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102, but lacking focus. His virtues really belonged to him; his faults he owed to his education, and to the demoralizing conditions of his exiled and uprooted existence.

And as these conditions explained in a great measure the personality of the novelist, they also explained the physiognomy of his characters, the atmosphere of his work. That atmosphere is depressing, and the physiognomy of the "heroes" is still more so. These heroes have nothing heroic about them. They are nearly all without energy, or they waste what energy they have in words, or in evanescent accessions of violence. They discant incessantly upon the Russian genius, its destiny, and its superiority over the European genius; but they submit to all the indignities of the present moment. Nearly all are "Useless Men." (See "The Diary of a Superfluous Man.") They go from one extreme to another, not having their centre of gravity within themselves. They ask from love both the joys and the sufferings of life, but in that very love they reveal the same want of character, of stability and consistence.

Sometimes they sacrifice to a caprice the woman they love; sometimes they commit