ss akin to lassitude and melancholy. He had not
long come from town after prolonged hard work, which had absorbed him
for many hours every day. The inactivity, the softness and purity of the
air, the consciousness of having attained his object, the whimsical and
careless talk of his friend, and the image--so suddenly called up--of
one dear to him, all these impressions different--yet at the same time
in a way akin--were mingled in him into a single vague emotion, which at
once soothed and excited him, and robbed him of his power. He was a very
highly strung young man.

It was cool and peaceful under the lime-tree; the flies and bees seemed
to hum more softly as they flitted within its circle of shade. The fresh
fine grass, of purest emerald green, without a tinge of gold, did not
quiver, the tall flower stalks stood motionless, as though enchanted.
On the lower twigs of the lime-tree the little bunches of yellow flowers
hung still as death. At every breath a sweet fragrance made its way to
the very depths of the lungs, and eagerly the lungs inhaled it. Beyond
the river in the distance, right up to the horizon, all was bright and
glowing. At times a slight breeze passed over, breaking up the landscape
and intensifying the brightness; a sunlit vapour hung over the fields.
No sound came from the birds; they do not sing in the heat of noonday;
but the grasshoppers were chirping everywhere, and it was pleasant as
they sat in the cool and quietness, to hear that hot, eager sound of
life; it disposed to slumber and inclined the heart to reveries.

'Have you noticed,' began Bersenyev, eking out his words with
gesticulations, 'what a strange feeling nature produces in us?
Everything in nature is so complete, so defined, I mean to say, so
content with itself, and we understand that and admire it, and at the
same time, in me at least, it always excites a kind of restlessness, a
kind of uneasiness, even melancholy. What is the meaning of it? Is it
that in the face of nature we are more vividly conscious of all our
incompleteness, our indefiniteness, or have we little of that content
with which nature is satisfied, but something else--I mean to say, what
we need, nature has not?'

'H'm,' replied Shubin, 'I'll tell you, Andrei Petrovitch, what all that
comes from. You describe the sensations of a solitary man, who is not
living but only looking on in ecstasy. Why look on? Live, yourself, and
you will be all right. However much you