world belonged to them; it's not for us to be so large in our reach;
our arms are short. We drop our hook into one little pool, and keep
watch over it. If we get a bite, so much the better, if not----'

Shubin put out his tongue.

'Stop, stop,' said Bensenyev, 'that's a paradox. If you have no
sympathy for beauty, if you do not love beauty wherever you meet it,
it will not come to you even in your art. If a beautiful view, if
beautiful music does not touch your heart; I mean, if you are not
sympathetic----'

'Ah, you are a confirmed sympathetic!' broke in Shubin, laughing at
the new title he had coined, while Bersenyev sank into thought.

'No, my dear fellow,' Shubin went on, 'you're a clever person, a
philosopher, third graduate of the Moscow University; it's dreadful
arguing with you, especially for an ignoramus like me, but I tell you
what; besides my art, the only beauty I love is in women ... in
girls, and even that's recently.'

He turned over on to his back and clasped his hands behind his head.

A few instants passed by in silence. The hush of the noonday heat lay
upon the drowsy, blazing fields.

'Speaking of women,' Shubin began again, 'how is it no one looks
after Stahov? Did you see him in Moscow?'

'No.'