ing to show
you.'

Bersenyev followed him to his attic. He was surprised to see a number of
studies, statuettes, and busts, covered with damp cloths, set about in
all the corners of the room.

'Well I see you have been at work in earnest,' he observed to Shubin.

'One must do something,' he answered. 'If one thing doesn't do, one must
try another. However, like a true Corsican, I am more concerned with
revenge than with pure art. _Trema, Bisanzia!_'

'I don't understand you,' said Bersenyev.

'Well, wait a minute. Deign to look this way, gracious friend and
benefactor, my vengeance number one.'

Shubin uncovered one figure, and Bersenyev saw a capital bust of
Insarov, an excellent likeness. The features of the face had been
correctly caught by Shubin to the minutest detail, and he had given him
a fine expression, honest, generous, and bold.

Bersenyev went into raptures over it.

'That's simply exquisite!' he cried. 'I congratulate you. You must
send it to the exhibition! Why do you call that magnificent work your
vengeance?'

'Because, sir, I intended to offer this magnificent work as you call it
to Elena Nikolaevna on her name day. Do you see the allegory? We are not
blind, we see what goes on about us, but we are gentlemen, my dear sir,
and we take our revenge like gentlemen.... But here,' added Shubin,
uncovering another figure, 'as the artist according to modern aesthetic
principles enjoys the enviable privilege of embodying in himself every
sort of baseness which he can turn into a gem of creative art, we in
the production of this gem, number two, have taken vengeance not as
gentlemen, but simply en canaille.'

He deftly drew off the cloth, and displayed to Bersenyev's eyes a
statuette in Dantan's style, also of Insarov. Anything cleverer and more
spiteful could not be imagined. The young Bulgarian was represented as
a ram standing on his hind-legs, butting forward with his horns. Dull
solemnity and aggressiveness, obstinacy, clumsiness and narrowness were
simply printed on the visage of the 'sire of the woolly flock,' and yet
the likeness to Insarov was so striking that Bersenyev could not help
laughing.

'Eh? is it amusing?' said Shubin. 'Do you recognise the hero? Do you
advise me to send it too to the exhibition? 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