He got up.

'What a night! silvery, dark, youthful! How sweet it must be to-night
for men who are loved! How sweet for them not to sleep! Will you
sleep, Andrei Petrovitch?'

Bersenyev made no answer, and quickened his pace.

'Where are you hurrying to?' Shubin went on. 'Trust my words, a night
like this will never come again in your life, and at home, Schelling
will keep. It's true he did you good service to-day; but you need not
hurry for all that. Sing, if you can sing, sing louder than ever; if
you can't sing, take off your hat, throw up your head, and smile to
the stars. They are all looking at you, at you alone; the stars never
do anything but look down upon lovers--that's why they are so
charming. You are in love, I suppose, Andrei Petrovitch? . . . You don't
answer me . . . why don't you answer?' Shubin began again: 'Oh, if you
feel happy, be quiet, be quiet! I chatter because I am a poor devil,
unloved, I am a jester, an artist, a buffoon; but what unutterable
ecstasy would I quaff in the night wind under the stars, if I knew
that I were loved! . . . Bersenyev, are you happy?'

Bersenyev was silent as before, and walked quickly along the smooth
path. In front, between the trees, glimmered the lights of the little
village in which he was staying; it consisted of about a dozen small
villas for summer visitors. At the very beginning of the village, to
the right of the road, a little shop stood under two spreading
birch-trees; its windows were all closed already, but a wide patch of
light fell fan-shaped from the open door upon the trodden grass, and