she checked herself.

'Look.' began Rudin, with a gesture towards the window, 'do you see that
apple-tree? It is broken by the weight and abundance of its own fruit.
True emblem of genius.'

'It is broken because it had no support,' replied Natalya

'I understand you, Natalya Alexyevna, but it is not so easy for a man to
find such a support.'

'I should think the sympathy of others... in any case isolation
always....'

Natalya was rather confused, and flushed a little.

'And what will you do in the country in the winter?' she added
hurriedly.

'What shall I do? I shall finish my larger essay--you know it--on
"Tragedy in Life and in Art." I described to you the outline of it the
day before yesterday, and shall send it to you.'

'And you will publish it?'

'No.'

'No? For whose sake will you work then?'

'And if it were for you?'

Natalya dropped her eyes.

'It would be far above me.'

'What, may I ask, is the subject of the essay?' Bassistoff inquired
modestly. He was sitting a little distance away.

'"Tragedy in Life and in Art,"' repeated Rudin. 'Mr. Bassistoff too will
read it. But I have not altogether settled on the fundamental motive. I
have not so far worked out for myself the tragic significance of love.'

Rudin liked to talk of love, and frequently did so. At first, at the
word 'love,' Mlle, Boncourt started, and pricked up her eyes like an old
war-horse at the sound of the trumpet; but afterwards she had grown used
to it, and now only pursed up her lips and took snuff at intervals.

'It seems to me,' said Natalya timidly, 'that the tragic in love is
unrequited love.'

'Not at all!' replied Rudin; 'that is rather the comic side of love.
... The question must be put in an altogether different way... one must
attack it more deeply.... Love!' he pursued, 'all is mystery in love;
how it comes, how it develops, how it passes away. Sometimes it comes
all at once, undoubting, glad as day; sometimes it smoulders like fire
under ashes, and only bursts into a flame in the heart when all is over;
sometimes it winds its way into the heart like a serpent, and suddenly
slips out of it again.... Yes, yes; it is the great problem. But who
does love in our days? Who is so bold as to love?'

And Rudin grew pensive.

'Why is it we have not seen Sergei Pavlitch for so long?' he asked
suddenly.

Natalya blushed, and bent her head over her embroidery frame.

'I don't know,' she murmured.

'What a splen