knock at nature's door, she will
never answer you in comprehensible words, because she is dumb. She will
utter a musical sound, or a moan, like a harp string, but don't expect
a song from her. A living heart, now--that will give you your
answer--especially a woman's heart. So, my dear fellow, I advise you
to get yourself some one to share your heart, and all your distressing
sensations will vanish at once. "That's what we need," as you say. This
agitation, and melancholy, all that, you know, is simply a hunger of
a kind. Give the stomach some real food, and everything will be right
directly. Take your place in the landscape, live in the body, my dear
boy. And after all, what is nature? what's the use of it? Only hear the
word, love--what an intense, glowing sound it has! Nature--what a cold,
pedantic expression. And so' (Shubin began humming), 'my greetings to
Marya Petrovna! or rather,' he added, 'not Marya Petrovna, but it's all
the same! _Voo me compreny_.'

Bersenyev got up and stood with his chin leaning on his clasped hands.
'What is there to laugh at?' he said, without looking at his companion,
'why should you scoff? Yes, you are right: love is a grand word, a grand
feeling.... But what sort of love do you mean?'

Shubin too, got up. 'What sort? What you like, so long as it's there. I
will confess to you that I don't believe in the existence of different
kinds of love. If you are in love----'

'With your whole heart,' put in Bersenyev.

'Well, of course, that's an understood thing; the heart's not an apple;
you can't divide it. If you're in love, you're justified. And I wasn't
thinking of scoffing. My heart's as soft at this moment as if it had
been melted.... I only wanted to explain why nature has the effect on us
you spoke of. It's because she arouses in us a need for love, and is not
capable of satisfying it. Nature is gently driving us to other living
embraces, but we don't understand, and expect something from nature
herself. Ah, Andrei, Andrei, this sun, this sky is beautiful, everything
around us is beautiful, still you are sad; but if, at this instant, you
were holding the hand of a woman you loved, if that hand and the whole
woman were yours, if you were even seeing with her eyes, feeling not
your own isolated emotion, but her emotion--nature would not make you
melancholy or restless then, and you would not be observing nature's
beauty; nature herself would be full of joy and praise; she would
be re