He laughed at everything with the gaiety of a man who finds life too preposterous for words.

He had all the Russian untidyness, kindness of heart, gay, ironical pessimism.

"To-morrow" was a word unknown to him: nothing was sacred to him, and yet at times it seemed as though life were so holy, so mysterious, that the only way to keep it from careless eyes was by laughing at it.

He had no principles, no plans, no prejudices, no reverences.

If he wished to sleep for a week he would do so, if he wished to eat for a week he would do so.