'The old fellow's gone clean off his head. He sits for whole days
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?