On the Eve

ho looked about twenty-three, tall and swarthy, with a sharp and rather crooked nose, a high forehead, and a restrained smile on his wide mouth, was lying on his back and gazing medita

is fresh round face, in his soft brown eyes, lovely pouting lips, and little white hands. Everything about him was suggestive of the happy light-heartedness of perfect health and youth-the carelessness, conceit, self-indulgence, and charm of youth. He use

rdness was expressed in the very pose of his hands, of his body, tightly clothed in a short black coat, and of his long legs with their knees raised, like the hind-legs of a grasshopper. For all that, it was impossible not to recognise that he was a man of good education; the whol

aring at the landscape you can watch a fat beetle crawling on a blade of grass, or an ant fussing about. It's really much nicer. But you've taken up a pseudo-classical pose, for all the world like a ballet-dancer, whe

joking voice (spoilt children speak so to friends of the house who

rd of creation, the highest being, stares at them, if you please, and they pay no attention to him. Why, a gnat will even settle on the lord of creation's nose, and make use of him for food. It's most offensive. And, on the o

d Bersenyev

nd lays his deepest thoughts before

and bright those fields are in the su

here,' observed Shubin. 'Nature's a

v shook

static over it than I. It's i

'Flesh is my line; my work's with flesh-modelling flesh, shoulders, legs, and arms, a

remarked Bersenyev.-'By the way,

ch o

with th

y in everything, even in your nose there's beauty; but you can't try after all kinds of beauty. The ancients, they didn't try after it; beauty came down of itself upon their creations from somewhere or other-from heaven,

ut out h

o not love beauty wherever you meet it, it will not come to you even in your art. If a beauti

e in Shubin, laughing at the new title he h

Moscow University; it's dreadful arguing with you, especially for an ignoramus like me, but I tell

is back and clasped hi

e. The hush of the noonday heat la

gain, 'how is it no one looks after

N

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

bust?' inquired Bersen

sy 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

rful girl,' Bersenye

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

illness 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 hi

le 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 intensifyi

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 n

ring, 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, an

o laugh at?' he said, without looking at his companion, 'why should you scoff? Yes, you

t's there. I will confess to you that I don't believe in th

le heart,' put

t 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

ce up and down, but Bersenyev bent his head

ce the word.) 'Nature threatens us, too; she reminds us of dreadful... yes, insoluble mysteries. Is she not destined to swallo

is both life and deat

rest, in a green glade, when I can fancy the romantic notes of Oberon's fairy horn

forest, and river, and fields, and sky, every cloud and every blade of grass sets me expecting, hoping for happiness, I feel the approach, I hear the voice of happiness calling in everything. "God of my worship, bright and gay!" That was how I tried to begin my sole poem; you must own it's a splendid first line, b

lmost challenging glance upwards to the sky.

gher than happiness?

tance?' asked Shub

happiness for himself.... But is that word, happiness, one that could unite us, set us both on fire, and

ords, then, th

ot few in number; an

What

are an artist-Country, S

f love?' as

love you are eager for now; the love which is n

n fro

ermans; I want to love for

ems to me that to put one's-self in the secon

ith a plaintive expression, 'none on earth would eat pine-

eed not be alarmed; there will always be plenty of people who like

s were sile

enyev. 'I invited him to stay with me; I really

ulgarian you were telling me about? The patriot? Now isn't

rha

xceptional

es

r? Tal

-I don't know, I

t is there rema

to be going. Anna Vassilyevna will be wait

my blood aflame. There was a moment when you, too,... I am not an artist

, moving his little feet with easy grace. Bersenyev walked clumsily, with his shoulders high and his neck craned forward. Yet, he