'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.'

'Hang it! Hang it! Hang it!' cried Shubin, drawling--'I looked at
the genuine old things, the antiques, and I smashed my rubbish to
pieces. You point to nature, and say "there's beauty here, too." Of
course, there's beauty 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, I suppose. The whole