The young men went down to the river Moskva and walked along its bank.
There was a breath of freshness from the water, and the soft plash of
tiny waves caressed the ear.

'I would have another bathe,' said Shubin, 'only I'm afraid of being
late. Look at the river; it seems to beckon us. The ancient Greeks
would have beheld a nymph in it. But we are not Greeks, O nymph! we
are thick-skinned Scythians.'

'We have _roussalkas_,' observed Bersenyev.

'Get along with your _roussalkas!_ What's the use to me--a sculptor--of
those children of a cold, terror-stricken fancy, those shapes begotten
in the stifling hut, in the dark of winter nights? I want light,
space. . . . Good God, when shall I go to Italy? When----'

'To Little Russia, I suppose you mean?'

'For shame, Andrei Petrovitch, to reproach me for an act of
unpremeditated folly, which I have repented bitterly enough without
that. Oh, of course, I behaved like a fool; Anna Vassilyevna most
kindly gave me the money for an expedition to Italy, and I went off to
the Little Russians to eat dumplings and----'

'Don't let me have the rest, please,' interposed Bersenyev.

'Yet still, I will say, the money was not spent in vain. I saw there
such types, especially of women. . . . Of course, I know; there is no
salvation to be found outside of Italy!'