‘I never thought of sending you away from here.’
‘Do you mean to say,’ Shubin continued
passionately, ’that I am not worthy of other
society, that I am her equal; that I am as vain, and
silly and petty as that mawkish German girl? Is
that it?’
Elena frowned. ’You did not always speak
like that of her, Pavel Yakovlitch,’ she remarked.
‘Ah! reproaches! reproaches now!’ cried
Shubin. ’Well, then I don’t deny
there was a moment—one moment precisely,
when those fresh, vulgar cheeks of hers . . .
But if I wanted to repay you with reproaches and remind
you . . . Good-bye,’ he added suddenly,
’I feel I shall say something silly.’
And with a blow on the clay moulded into the shape
of a head, he ran out of the arbour and went off to
his room.
‘What a baby,’ said Elena, looking after
him.
‘He’s an artist,’ observed Bersenyev
with a quiet smile. ’All artists are like
that. One must forgive them their caprices.
That is their privilege.’
‘Yes,’ replied Elena; ’but Pavel
has not so far justified his claim to that privilege
in any way. What has he done so far? Give
me your arm, and let us go along the avenue.
He was in our way. We were talking of your father’s
works.’
Bersenyev took Elena’s arm in his, and walked
beside her through the garden; but the conversation
prematurely broken off was not renewed. Bersenyev
began again unfolding his views on the vocation of
a professor, and on his own future career. He
walked slowly beside Elena, moving awkwardly, awkwardly
holding her arm, sometimes jostling his shoulder against
her, and not once looking at her; but his talk flowed
more easily, even if not perfectly freely; he spoke
simply and genuinely, and his eyes, as they strayed
slowly over the trunks of the trees, the sand of the
path and the grass, were bright with the quiet ardour
of generous emotions, while in his soothed voice there
was heard the delight of a man who feels that he is
succeeding in expressing himself to one very dear
to him. Elena listened to him very attentively,
and turning half towards him, did not take her eyes
off his face, which had grown a little paler—off
his eyes, which were soft and affectionate, though
they avoided meeting her eyes. Her soul expanded;
and something tender, holy, and good seemed half sinking
into her heart, half springing up within it.
Shubin did not leave his room before night. It
was already quite dark; the moon—not yet
at the full—stood high in the sky, the milky
way shone white, and the stars spotted the heavens,
when Bersenyev, after taking leave of Anna Vassilyevna,
Elena, and Zoya, went up to his friend’s door.
He found it locked. He knocked.
‘Who is there?’ sounded Shubin’s
voice.
‘I,’ answered Bersenyev.
‘What do you want?’
‘Let me in, Pavel; don’t be sulky; aren’t
you ashamed of yourself?’
