‘Why don’t you lie on your face, like me?’ began Shubin. ‘It’s ever so much nicer so; especially when you kick up your heels and clap them together--like this. You have the grass under your nose; when you’re sick of staring 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, when she reclines upon a rock of paste-board. You should remember you have a perfect right to take a rest now. It’s no joking matter to come out third! Take your ease, sir; give up all exertion, and rest your weary limbs!’ Shubin delivered this speech through his nose in a half-lazy, half-joking voice (spoilt children speak so to friends of the house who bring them sweetmeats), and without waiting for an answer he went on: ‘What strikes me most forcibly in the ants and beetles and other worthy insects is their astounding seriousness. They run to and fro with such a solemn air, as though their life were something of such importance! A man the lord 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 other hand, how is their life inferior to ours? And why shouldn’t they take themselves seriously, if we are to be allowed to take ourselves seriously? There now, philosopher, solve that problem for me! Why don’t you speak? Eh?’ ‘What?’ said Bersenyev, starting. ‘What!’ repeated Shubin. ‘Your friend lays his deepest thoughts before you, and you don’t listen to him.’ ‘I was admiring the view. Look how hot and bright those fields are in the sun.’ Bersenyev spoke with a slight lisp. ‘There’s some fine colour laid on there,’ observed Shubin. ‘Nature’s a good hand at it, that’s the fact!’ Bersenyev shook his head. ‘You ought to be even more ecstatic over it than I. It’s in your line: you’re an artist.’ ‘No; it’s not in my line,’ rejoined Shubin, putting his hat on the back of his head. ‘Flesh is my line; my work’s with flesh--modelling flesh, shoulders, legs, and arms, and here there’s no form, no finish; it’s all over the place.... Catch it if you can.’ ‘But there is beauty here, too,’ remarked Bersenyev.--‘By the way, have you finished your bas-relief?’ ‘Which one?’ ‘The boy with the goat.’