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For the first two I have already thought of titles. On the bust shall be inscribed: "A hero resolving to liberate his country." On the statuette: "Look out, sausage-eating Germans!" And for this work what do you think of "The future of the artist Pavel Yakovlitch Shubin?" Will that do? 'Leave off, replied Bersenyev.
He felt a tingling in his cheeks, his eyes were chill with momentary tears; he would have liked to move quite noiselessly, to steal along in secret. A cross gust of wind blew suddenly on him; he almost shuddered, and his heart stood still; a drowsy beetle fell off a twig and dropped with a thud on the path; Bersenyev uttered a subdued 'Ah! and again stopped.
She talked a great deal about him to Bersenyev. Bersenyev realised that Elena's imagination had been struck by Insarov, and was glad that his friend had not 'missed fire' as Shubin had asserted. One day Bersenyev came to the Stahovs, not at the customary time, but at eleven o'clock in the morning. Elena came down to him in the parlour.
He took one glass, and gave the other two to Elena and Insarov, who by now was seated beside hen 'God give you began Nikolai Artemyevitch, and he could not go on: he drank off the wine; they, too, drank off their glasses. 'Now you should drink, gentlemen, he added, turning to Shubin and Bersenyev, but at that instant the driver started the horses. Nikolai Artemyevitch ran beside the sledge.
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.
And why shouldn't they take themselves seriously, if we are to be allowed to take ourselves seriously? There now, philosopher, solve that problem for me! Why don't you speak? Eh? 'What? said Bersenyev, starting. 'What! repeated Shubin. 'Your friend lays his deepest thoughts before you, and you don't listen to him. 'I was admiring the view.
Bersenyev began smoking the pipe. 'Here have I, he went on, 'taken a little house near Kuntsovo, very cheap and very roomy. In fact there is a room to spare upstairs. Insarov again made no answer.
Shubin himself played the fool a great deal, ran in front, threw himself into the attitudes of famous statues, and turned somersaults on the grass; Insarov's tranquillity did not exactly irritate him, but it spurred him on to playing antics. 'What a fidget you are, Frenchman! Bersenyev said twice to him.
For all that, it was impossible not to recognise that he was a man of good education; the whole of his clumsy person bore the stamp of good-breeding; and his face, plain and even a little ridiculous as it was, showed a kindly nature and a thoughtful habit. His name was Andrei Petrovitch Bersenyev; his companion, the fair-haired young man, was called Pavel Yakovlitch Shubin.
Towards morning Insarov revived for a few minutes, recognised Bersenyev, asked: 'Am I ill, then? looked about him with the vague, listless bewilderment of a man dangerously ill, and again relapsed into unconsciousness. Bersenyev went home, changed his clothes, and, taking a few books along with him, he returned to Insarov's lodgings. He made up his mind to stay there, at least for a time.
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