‘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 waves caressed the ear. ‘I would have another bathe,’ said Shubin, ‘only I’m afraid of being late. Look at the river; it seems to beckon us. The ancient Greeks would have beheld a nymph in it. But we are not Greeks, O nymph! we are thick-skinned Scythians.’ ‘We have _roussalkas_,’ observed Bersenyev. ‘Get along with your _roussalkas!_ What’s the use to me--a sculptor--of those children of a cold, terror-stricken fancy, those shapes begotten in the stifling hut, in the dark of winter nights? I want light, space.... Good God, when shall I go to Italy? When----’ ‘To Little Russia, I suppose you mean?’ ‘For shame, Andrei Petrovitch, to reproach me for an act of unpremeditated folly, which I have repented bitterly enough without that. Oh, of course, I behaved like a fool; Anna Vassilyevna most kindly gave me the money for an expedition to Italy, and I went off to the Little Russians to eat dumplings and----’ ‘Don’t let me have the rest, please,’ interposed Bersenyev. ‘Yet still, I will say, the money was not spent in vain. I saw there such types, especially of women.... Of course, I know; there is no salvation to be found outside of Italy!’