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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.
'No, my dear fellow, Shubin went on, 'you're a clever person, a philosopher, third graduate of the Moscow University; it's dreadful arguing with you, especially for an ignoramus like me, but I tell you what; besides my art, the only beauty I love is in women... in girls, and even that's recently. He turned over on to his back and clasped his hands behind his head.
'Of course, Shubin broke in, 'she is pretty, very pretty; I am sure that no one who meets her could fail to think: that's some one I should like to dance a polka with; I'm sure, too, that she knows that, and is pleased.... Else, what's the meaning of those modest simpers, that discreet air? There, you know what I mean, he muttered between his teeth. 'But now you're absorbed in something else.
'Your nephew, resumed Shubin, 'threatens to lodge a complaint with the Metropolitan and the General-Governor and the Minister, but it will end by her going. A happy thought to ruin his own daughter! He'll crow a little and then lower his colours. 'They'd no right, observed Uvar Ivanovitch, and he drank out of the jug. 'To be sure.
Kurnatovsky did not at all deny the utility of science, universities, and so on, but still I understood Andrei Petrovitch's indignation. The man looks at it all as a sort of gymnastics. Shubin is clever, and I remembered his words to tell you; but to my mind there is nothing in common between you. You have faith, and he has not; for a man cannot have faith in himself only.
Look how hot and bright those fields are in the sun. Bersenyev spoke with a slight lisp. 'There's some fine colour laid on there, observed Shubin. 'Nature's a good hand at it, that's the fact! Bersenyev shook his head. 'You ought to be even more ecstatic over it than I. It's in your line: you're an artist. 'No; it's not in my line, rejoined Shubin, putting his hat on the back of his head.
The shopkeeper, a puffy man, unmoved by anything in the world, like all country shopkeepers gasped and gaped after her, while Shubin turned to Bersenyev with the words: 'That's... you see... there's a family here I know... so at their house... you mustn't imagine' ... and, without finishing his speech, he ran after the retreating girl.
In front went Elena and Zoya with Insarov; Anna Vassilyevna, with an expression of perfect happiness on her face, walked behind them, leaning on the arm of Uvar Ivanovitch. He waddled along panting, his new straw hat cut his forehead, and his feet twinged in his boots, but he was content; Shubin and Bersenyev brought up the rear.
Such honesty; such disinterestedness. 'Has she cashed that bill yet? inquired Shubin. 'Such disinterestedness, repeated Nikolai Artemyevitch; 'it's astonishing. They tell me there are a million other women in the world, but I say, show me the million; show me the million, I say; ces femmes, qu'on me les montre! And she doesn't write that's what's killing me!
The cloth was lifted and Bersenyev saw two heads, modelled side by side and close as though growing together.... He did not at once know what was the subject, but looking closer, he recognised in one of them Annushka, in the other Shubin himself. They were, however, rather caricatures than portraits.
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