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The page announced the arrival of the two friends. They came in. Bersenyev introduced Insarov. Elena asked them to sit down, and sat down herself, while Zoya went off upstairs; she had to inform Anna Vassilyevna of their arrival. A conversation was begun of a rather insignificant kind, like all first conversations. Shubin was silently watching from a corner, but there was nothing to watch.
The household was thrown into a state of bustle; a messenger galloped off to Moscow for Nikolai Artemyevitch; with him galloped the butler to buy wines, pies, and all sorts of provisions; Shubin was commissioned to hire an open carriage the coach alone was not enough and to order relays of horses to be ready; a page was twice despatched to Bersenyev and Insarov with two different notes of invitation, written by Zoya, the first in Russian, the second in French; Anna Vassilyevna herself was busy over the dresses of the young ladies for the expedition.
'Don't let me have the rest, please, interposed Bersenyev. 'Yet still, I will say, the money was not spent in vain. I saw there such types, especially of women.... Of course, I know; there is no salvation to be found outside of Italy! 'You will go to Italy, said Bersenyev, without turning towards him, 'and will do nothing. You will always be pluming your wings and never take flight.
He ought not to know himself why he butts at things, but just to butt at them. But, perhaps, in our days heroes of a different stamp are needed. 'Why are you so taken up with Insarov? asked Bersenyev. 'Can you have run here only to describe his character to me? 'I came here, began Shubin, 'because I was very miserable at home. 'Oh, that's it! Don't you want to have a cry again?
One would not have known her; she seemed fully twenty years younger. Bersenyev said as much to her.
Suddenly the door softly creaked, and the head of the landlord's daughter, covered as usual with a heavy kerchief, was cautiously thrust into the room. 'Here is the lady, she whispered, 'who gave me a silver piece. The child's head vanished quickly, and in its place appeared Elena. Bersenyev jumped up as if he had been stung; but Elena did not stir, nor cry out.
In 1835, that is to say eighteen years ago, a terrible crime was committed; Insarov's mother suddenly disappeared without leaving a trace behind; a week later she was found murdered. Elena shuddered. Bersenyev stopped. 'Go on, go on, she said.
'Flesh is my line; my work's with flesh modelling flesh, shoulders, legs, and arms, and here there's no form, no finish; it's all over the place.... Catch it if you can. 'But there is beauty here, too, remarked Bersenyev. 'By the way, have you finished your bas-relief? 'Which one? 'The boy with the goat. 'Hang it! Hang it!
That, my dear fellow, I intend as a present for myself on my own name day.... Your honour will permit me to play the fool. And Shubin gave three little leaps, kicking himself behind with his heels. Bersenyev picked up the cloth off the floor and threw it over the statuette. 'Ah, you, magnanimous' began Shubin. 'Who the devil was it in history was so particularly magnanimous? Well, never mind!
Zoya was sitting by her, the folds of her skirt arranged precisely about her, and her little hands clasped on her knees. Uvar Ivanovitch was reposing in the attic on a wide and comfortable divan, known as a 'samo-son' or 'dozer. Bersenyev again mentioned his father; he held his memory sacred. Let us, too, say a few words about him.
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