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.

A few instants passed by in silence. The hush of the noonday heat lay
upon the drowsy, blazing fields.

'Speaking of women,' Shubin began again, 'how is it no one looks after
Stahov? Did you see him in Moscow?'

'No.'

'The old fellow's gone clean off his head. He sits for whole days
together at his Augustina Christianovna's, he's bored to death, but
still he sits there. They gaze at one another so stupidly.... It's
positively disgusting to see them. Man's a strange animal. A man with
such a home; but no, he must have his Augustina Christianovna! I don't
know anything more repulsive than her face, just like a duck's! The
other day I modelled a caricature of her in the style of Dantan. It
wasn't half bad. I will show it you.'

'And Elena Nikolaevna's bust?' inquired Bersenyev, 'is it getting on?'

'No, my dear boy, it's not getting on. That face is enough to drive one
to despair. The lines are pure, severe, correct; one would think there
would be no difficulty in catching a likeness. It's not as easy as one
would think though. It's like a treasure in a fairy-tale--you can't get
hold of it. Have you ever noticed how she listens? There's not a single
feature different, but the whole expression of the eyes is constantly
changing, and with that the whole face changes. What is a sculptor--and
a poor one too--to do with such a face? She's a wonderful creature--a
strange creature,' he added after a brief pause.

'Yes; she is a wonderful girl,' Bersenyev repeated after him.

'And she the daughter of Nikolai Artemyevitch Stahov! And after that
people talk about blood, about stock! The amusing part of it is that
she really is his daughter, like him, as well as like her mother, Anna
Vassilyevna. I respect Anna Vassilyevna from the depths of my heart,
she's been awfully good to me; but she's no better than a hen. Where
did Elena get that soul of hers? Who kindled that fire in her? There's
another problem for you, philosopher!'

But as before, the 'philosopher' made no reply. Bersenyev did not in
general err on the side of talkativeness, and when he did speak,
he expressed himself awkwardly, with hesitation, and unnecessary
gesticulation. And at this time a kind of special stillness had fallen
on his soul, a stillne