-day; but for living it makes all
the difference. And you see she wants to live with him a little while.'

'A youthful affair,' responded Uvar Ivanovitch.

'Yes, a youthful, glorious, bold affair. Death, life, conflict, defeat,
triumph, love, freedom, country.... Good God, grant as much to all of
us! That's a very different thing from sitting up to one's neck in a
bog, and pretending it's all the same to you, when in fact it really is
all the same. While there--the strings are tuned to the highest pitch,
to play to all the world or to break!'

Shubin's head sank on to his breast.

'Yes,' he resumed, after a prolonged silence, 'Insarov deserves her.
What nonsense, though! No one deserves her... Insarov... Insarov ...
What's the use of pretended modesty? We'll own he's a fine fellow, he
stands on his own feet, though up to the present he has done no more
than we poor sinners; and are we such absolutely worthless dirt? Am I
such dirt, Uvar Ivanovitch? Has God been hard on me in every way? Has He
given me no talents, no abilities? Who knows, perhaps, the name of Pavel
Shubin will in time be a great name? You see that bronze farthing there
lying on your table. Who knows; some day, perhaps in a century, that
bronze will go to a statue of Pavel Shubin, raised in his honour by a
grateful posterity!'

Uvar Ivanovitch leaned on his elbow and stared at the enthusiastic
artist.

'That's a long way off,' he said at last with his usual gesture; 'we're
speaking of other people, why bring in yourself?'

'O great philosopher of the Russian world!' cried Shubin, 'every word
of yours is worth its weight in gold, and it's not to me but to you a
statue ought to be raised, and I would undertake it. There, as you are
lying now, in that pose; one doesn't know which is uppermost in it,
sloth or strength! That's how I would cast you in bronze. You aimed a
just reproach at my egoism and vanity! Yes! yes! it's useless talking
of one's-self; it's useless bragging. We have no one yet, no men, look
where you will. Everywhere--either small fry, nibblers, Hamlets on a
small scale, self-absorbed, or darkness and subterranean chaos, or
idle babblers and wooden sticks. Or else they are like this: they study
themselves to the most shameful detail, and are for ever feeling the
pulse of every sensation and reporting to themselves: "That's what I
feel, that's what I think." A useful, rational occupation! No, if we
only had some sensible men among us,