done no more than we poor sinners; and are we such absolutely
worthless dirt? Am I such dirt, Uvar Ivanovitch? Has God been hard
on me in every way? Has He given me no talents, no abilities? Who
knows, perhaps, the name of Pavel Shubin will in time be a great name?
You see that bronze farthing there lying on your table. Who knows;
some day, perhaps in a century, that bronze will go to a statue of
Pavel Shubin, raised in his honour by a grateful posterity!'

Uvar Ivanovitch leaned on his elbow and stared at the enthusiastic
artist.

'That's a long way off,' he said at last with his usual gesture;
'we're speaking of other people, why bring in yourself?'

'O great philosopher of the Russian world!' cried Shubin, 'every
word of yours is worth its weight in gold, and it's not to me but to
you a statue ought to be raised, and I would undertake it. There, as
you are lying now, in that pose; one doesn't know which is uppermost
in it, sloth or strength! That's how I would cast you in bronze. You
aimed a just reproach at my egoism and vanity! Yes! yes! it's
useless talking of one's-self; it's useless bragging. We have no one
yet, no men, look where you will. Everywhere--either small fry,
nibblers, Hamlets on a small scale, self-absorbed, or darkness and
subterranean chaos, or idle babblers and wooden sticks. Or else they
are like this: they study themselves to the most shameful detail, and
are for ever feeling the pulse of every sensation and reporting to
themselves: "That's what I feel, that's what I think." A useful,
rational occupation! No, if we only had some sensible men among us,
that girl, that delicate soul, would not have run away from us, would
not have slipped off like a fish to the water! What's the meaning of