imagination. You look it through again; it is no good, because it
is written stupidly. There is plenty of color, but not enough
intelligence.

"One's writing is good only when the intelligence and the
imagination are in equilibrium. As soon as one of them
overbalances the other, it's all up; you may as well throw it
away and begin afresh."

As a matter of fact, there was no end to the rewriting in my
father's works. His industry in this particular was truly
marvelous.

We were always devoted to sport from our earliest childhood.
I can remember as well as I remember myself my father's favorite
dog in those days, an Irish setter called Dora. They would bring
round the cart, with a very quiet horse between the shafts, and
we would drive out to the marsh, to Degatna or to
Malakhov. My father and sometimes my mother or a coachman
sat on the seat, while I and Dora lay on the floor.

When we got to the marsh, my father used to get out, stand
his gun on the ground, and, holding it with his left hand, load
it.

Dora meanwhile fidgeted about, whining impatiently and
wagging her thick tail.

While my father splashed through the marsh, we drove round
the bank somewhat behind him, and eagerly followed the ranging of