Uncle Seryozha went out coursing with us one day. A
number of gray hares were run down, not one, getting away; Uncle
Seryozha expressed no surprise, but still maintained that
the only reason was because they were a poor lot of hares. We
could not tell whether he was right or wrong.

Perhaps, after all, he was right, for he was more of a
sportsman than papa and had run down ever so many wolves, while we
had never known papa run any wolves down.

Afterward papa kept dogs only because there was Agafya
Mikhailovna to be thought of, and Uncle Seryozha gave
up sport because it was impossible to keep dogs.

"Since the emancipation of the peasants," he said, "sport is
out of the question; there are no huntsmen to be had, and the
peasants turn out with sticks and drive the sportsmen off the
fields. What is there left to do nowadays? Country life has
become impossible."

With all his good breeding and sincerity, Uncle
Seryozha never concealed any characteristic but one; with
the utmost shyness he concealed the tenderness of his affections,
and if it ever forced itself into the light, it was only in
exceptional circumstances and that against his will.

He displayed with peculiar clearness a family characteristic
which was partly shared by my father, namely, an extraordinary
restraint in the expression of affection, which was often concealed
under the mask of indifference and sometimes even of unexpected