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It's hard to forecast the future. For a while Elena did not take her eyes off Bersenyev. 'You have greatly interested me by what you have told me, she said. 'What is he like, this friend of yours; what did you call him, Insarov? 'What shall I say? To my mind, he's good-looking. But you will see him for yourself. 'How so? 'I will bring him here to see you.
Shubin leaped on to his feet and walked twice up and down, but Bersenyev bent his head, and his face was overcast by a faint flush. Is she not destined to swallow us up, is she not swallowing us up unceasingly? She holds life and death as well; and death speaks in her as loudly as life. 'In love, too, there is both life and death, interposed Shubin.
And breaking up the bust of Zoya, Shubin set hastily to modelling and kneading the clay again with an air of vexation. 'So it is your wish to be a professor? said Elena to Bersenyev. 'Yes, he answered, squeezing his red hands between his knees. 'That's my cherished dream.
But, I dare say, one might fall in love with either of them. She is not in love yet, but she will fall in love with Bersenyev, he decided to himself. Anna Vassilyevna made her appearance in the drawing-room, and the conversation took the tone peculiar to summer villas not the country-house tone but the peculiar summer visitor tone.
When he had settled in, he asked Bersenyev to let him pay him ten roubles in advance, and arming himself with a thick stick, set off to inspect the country surrounding his new abode.
Shubin looked intently at him. 'And does that astonish you? You are a modest youth. But she loves you. You can make your mind easy on that score. 'What nonsense you talk! Bersenyev protested at last with an air of vexation. 'No, it's not nonsense. But why are we standing still? Let us go on. It's easier to talk as we walk. I have known her a long while, and I know her well. I cannot be mistaken.
I chatter because I am a poor devil, unloved, I am a jester, an artist, a buffoon; but what unutterable ecstasy would I quaff in the night wind under the stars, if I knew that I were loved!... Bersenyev, are you happy? Bersenyev was silent as before, and walked quickly along the smooth path.
'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.
She's leaving her country, and her people; but I understand her doing it. Whom is she leaving here behind her? What people has she seen? Kurnatovsky and Bersenyev and our humble selves; and these are the best she's seen. What is there to regret about it? One thing's bad; I'm told her husband the devil, how that word sticks in my throat! Insarov, I'm told, is spitting blood; that's a bad lookout.
He looked at her with such an expression of adoration, that she softly dropped her hand from his hair over his eyes. 'Dmitri! she began again, 'you don't know of course, I saw you there in that dreadful bed, I saw you in the clutches of death, unconscious. 'You saw me? 'Yes. He was silent for a little. 'And Bersenyev was here? She nodded. Insarov bowed down before her.
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