On the Eve | Page 6

together at his Augustina Christianovna's, he's bored to death, but still
he sits there. They gaze at one 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 know
anything more repulsive than her face, just like a duck's! The other day
I modelled a caricature of her in the style of Dantan. It wasn't half bad.
I will show it you.'
'And Elena Nikolaevna's bust?' inquired Bersenyev, 'is it getting on?'
'No, my dear boy, it's not getting on. That face is enough to drive one to
despair. The lines are pure, severe, correct; one would think there
would be no difficulty in catching a likeness. It's not as easy 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 eyes is constantly
changing, and with that the whole face changes. What is a sculptor--and
a poor one too--to do with such a face? She's a wonderful creature--a
strange creature,' he added after a brief pause.
'Yes; she is a wonderful girl,' Bersenyev repeated after him.
'And she the daughter of Nikolai Artemyevitch Stahov! And after that
people talk about blood, about stock! The amusing part of it is that she
really is 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 me; but she's no better than a hen. Where
did Elena get that soul of hers? Who kindled that fire in her? There's
another problem for you, philosopher!'
But as before, the 'philosopher' made no reply. Bersenyev did not in
general err on the side of talkativeness, and when he did speak, he
expressed himself awkwardly, with hesitation, and unnecessary
gesticulation. And at this time a kind of special stillness had fallen on
his soul, a stillness 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 his friend, and the image--so suddenly called up--of one
dear to him, all these impressions different--yet at the same time in a
way akin--were mingled in him into a single vague emotion, which at
once soothed and excited him, and robbed him of his power. He was a
very highly strung young man.
It was cool and peaceful under the lime-tree; the flies and bees seemed
to hum more softly as they flitted within its circle of shade. The fresh
fine grass, of purest emerald green, without a tinge of gold, did not
quiver, the tall flower stalks stood motionless, as though enchanted. On
the lower twigs of the lime-tree the little 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 intensifying the brightness; a sunlit vapour hung over the

fields. No sound came from the birds; they do not sing in the heat of
noonday; but the grasshoppers were chirping everywhere, and it was
pleasant as they sat in the cool and quietness, to hear that hot, eager
sound of life; it disposed to slumber and inclined the heart to reveries.
'Have you noticed,' began Bersenyev, eking out his words with
gesticulations, 'what a strange feeling nature produces in us?
Everything in nature is so complete, so defined, I mean to say, so
content with itself, 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 nature we are more vividly conscious of all our
incompleteness, our indefiniteness, or have we little of that content
with which nature is satisfied, but something else--I mean to say, what
we need, nature has not?'
'H'm,' replied Shubin, 'I'll tell you, Andrei Petrovitch, what all that
comes from. You describe the sensations of a solitary man, who is not
living but only looking on in ecstasy. Why look on? Live, yourself, and
you will be all right. However much you knock at nature's door, she
will never answer you in comprehensible words, because she is dumb.
She will utter a musical sound,