Petrovna! or rather,' he added, 'not Marya Petrovna, but it's all the
same! _Voo me compreny_.'

Bersenyev got up and stood with his chin leaning on his clasped hands.
'What is there to laugh at?' he said, without looking at his
companion, 'why should you scoff? Yes, you are right: love is a
grand word, a grand feeling. . . . But what sort of love do you mean?'

Shubin too, got up. 'What sort? What you like, so long as it's there.
I will confess to you that I don't believe in the existence of
different kinds of love. If you are in love----'

'With your whole heart,' put in Bersenyev.

'Well, of course, that's an understood thing; the heart's not an
apple; you can't divide it. If you're in love, you're justified. And
I wasn't thinking of scoffing. My heart's as soft at this moment as if
it had been melted. ... I only wanted to explain why nature has the
effect on us you spoke of. It's because she arouses in us a need for
love, and is not capable of satisfying it. Nature is gently driving us
to other living embraces, but we don't understand, and expect
something from nature herself. Ah, Andrei, Andrei, this sun, this sky
is beautiful, everything around us is beautiful, still you are sad;
but if, at this instant, you were holding the hand of a woman you
loved, if that hand and the whole woman were yours, if you were even
seeing with her eyes, feeling not your own isolated emotion, but her
emotion--nature would not make you melancholy or restless then, and
you would not be observing nature's beauty; nature herself would be
full of joy and praise; she would be re-echoing your hymn, because
then you would have given her--dumb nature--speech!'