A most agreeable individual (needless to say I am not referring to British phlegmatics, but Russian ones). He is quite unremarkable in appearance, and somewhat ungainly. He is always serious, because he is too lazy to laugh. He will eat anything and at any time. He does not drink because he is afraid of fits, and sleeps twenty hours a day. He sits on every possible committee and is to be found at every meeting and emergency session but is at a loss about what is going on, and dozes off without a twinge of conscience, patiently waiting for the meeting to end. At the age of thirty, with the assistance of uncles and aunts, he marries. He is the most suitable person for marriage: he agrees with everything, never grumbles, and is completely complacent. He calls his wife “sweetheart.” He loves suckling pig with horseradish, all things sour, choral music, and the cool shade. The phrase vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas9 (nonsense of nonsenses, and all is nonsense) was coined with the phlegmatic man in mind. He only falls ill when he is called upon to serve as a juror. When he sees a portly woman he wheezes, begins fidgeting, and attempts to smile. He has a subscription to Niva, but is peeved that they do not color their pictures and have no funny articles. He considers writers extremely clever, but at the same time extremely dangerous. He laments that his children are not whipped at school, but is himself at times not averse to giving them a good hiding. He is happy in the civil service. In an orchestra he is the contrabass, bassoon, or trombone; in a theater the cashier, doorman, or prompter—and at times, pour manger, an actor. He ultimately falls victim to paralysis or dropsy.

The phlegmatic woman is a hefty, pop-eyed, flour-white German woman of means prone to tears. She calls to mind a sack of flour. She is born to become a mother-in-law, a condition toward which she strives.

The Melancholic Man. Gray-blue eyes, brimming with tears. There are deep lines on his forehead and on either side of his nose. His mouth is somewhat crooked, his teeth black. He inclines to hypochondria, forever complaining of a pain in the pit of his stomach, a stitch in his side, and weak digestion. His favorite pastime is to stand before a mirror eyeing his limp tongue. He believes his lungs are weak and that he is suffering from a nervous condition, and consequently drinks herbal potions instead of tea, and elixir of life instead of vodka. With sorrow and in a faltering voice, he informs those near and dear to him that laurel tinctures and valerian drops are not availing. He feels that it would not be amiss to take a purgative once a week.