‘Yes; and they are not few in number; and you
know them, too.’
‘Eh? What words?’
’Well, even Art—since you are an
artist—Country, Science, Freedom, Justice.’
‘And what of love?’ asked Shubin.
’Love, too, is a word that unites; but not the
love you are eager for now; the love which is not
enjoyment, the love which is self-sacrifice.’
Shubin frowned.
’That’s all very well for Germans; I want
to love for myself; I want to be first.’
‘To be first,’ repeated Bersenyev.
’But it seems to me that to put one’s-self
in the second place is the whole significance of our
life.’
‘If all men were to act as you advise,’
commented Shubin with a plaintive expression, ’none
on earth would eat pine-apples; every one would be
offering them to other people.’
’That’s as much as to say, pine-apples
are not necessary; but you need not be alarmed; there
will always be plenty of people who like them enough
to take the bread out of other men’s mouths to
get them.’
Both friends were silent a little.
‘I met Insarov again the other day,’ began
Bersenyev. ’I invited him to stay with
me; I really must introduce him to you—and
to the Stahovs.’
’Who is Insarov? Ah, to be sure, isn’t
it that Servian or Bulgarian you were telling me about?
The patriot? Now isn’t it he who’s
at the bottom of all these philosophical ideas?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Is he an exceptional individual?’
‘Yes.’
‘Clever? Talented?’
‘Clever—talented—I don’t
know, I don’t think so.’
‘Not? Then, what is there remarkable in
him?’
’You shall see. But now I think it’s
time to be going. Anna Vassilyevna will be waiting
for us, very likely. What’s the time?’
’Three o’clock. Let us go. How
baking it is! This conversation has set all my
blood aflame. There was a moment when you, too,
... I am not an artist for nothing; I observe
everything. Confess, you are interested in a
woman?’
Shubin tried to get a look at Bersenyev’s face,
but he turned away and walked out of the lime-tree’s
shade. Shubin went after him, moving his little
feet with easy grace. Bersenyev walked clumsily,
with his shoulders high and his neck craned forward.
Yet, he looked a man of finer breeding than Shubin;
more of a gentleman, one might say, if that word had
not been so vulgarised among us.
The young men went down to the river Moskva and walked
along its bank. There was a breath of freshness
from the water, and the soft plash of tiny waves caressed
the ear.
‘I would have another bathe,’ said Shubin,
’only I’m afraid of being late. Look
at the river; it seems to beckon us. The ancient
Greeks would have beheld a nymph in it. But we
are not Greeks, O nymph! we are thick-skinned Scythians.’
‘We have roussalkas,’ observed
Bersenyev.
