s, then, that unite men?'

'Yes; and they are not few in number; and you know them, too.'

'Eh? What words?'

'Well, even Art--since you are an artist--Country, Science, Freedom,
Justice.'

'And what of love?' asked Shubin.

'Love, too, is a word that unites; but not the love you are eager for
now; the love which is not enjoyment, the love which is self-sacrifice.'

Shubin frowned.

'That's all very well for Germans; I want to love for myself; I want to
be first.'

'To be first,' repeated Bersenyev. 'But it seems to me that to put
one's-self in the second place is the whole significance of our life.'

'If all men were to act as you advise,' commented Shubin with a
plaintive expression, 'none on earth would eat pine-apples; every one
would be offering them to other people.'

'That's as much as to say, pine-apples are not necessary; but you need
not be alarmed; there will always be plenty of people who like them
enough to take the bread out of other men's mouths to get them.'

Both friends were silent a little.

'I met Insarov again the other day,' began Bersenyev. 'I invited him to
stay with me; I really must introduce him to you--and to the Stahovs.'

'Who is Insarov? Ah, to be sure, isn't it that Servian or Bulgarian you
were telling me about? The patriot? Now isn't it he who's at the bottom
of all these philosophical ideas?'

'Perhaps.'

'Is he an exceptional individual?'

'Yes.'

'Clever? Talented?'

'Clever--talented--I don't know, I don't think so.'

'Not? Then, what is there remarkable in him?'

'You shall see. But now I think it's time to be going. Anna Vassilyevna
will be waiting for us, very likely. What's the time?'

'Three o'clock. Let us go. How baking it is! This conversation has set
all my blood aflame. There was a moment when you, too,... I am not an
artist for nothing; I observe everything. Confess, you are interested in
a woman?'

Shubin tried to get a look at Bersenyev's face, but he turned away and
walked out of the lime-tree's shade. Shubin went after him, moving
his little feet with easy grace. Bersenyev walked clumsily, with his
shoulders high and his neck craned forward. Yet, he looked a man of
finer breeding than Shubin; more of a gentleman, one might say, if that
word had not been so vulgarised among us.

II

The young men went down to the river Moskva and walked along its bank.
There was a breath of freshness from the water, and the soft plash of
tiny