gossip and a slanderer,--and all because I'm an artist. What luckless,
God-forsaken wretches we artists are after that! You, for instance, I
am ready to adore, and you don't believe in my repentance.'

'No, Pavel Yakovlitch, I believe in your repentance and I believe in
your tears. But it seems to me that even your repentance amuses
you--yes and your tears too.'

Shubin shuddered.

'Well, I see this is, as the doctors say, a hopeless case, _casus
incurabilis_. There is nothing left but to bow the head and submit.
And meanwhile, good Heavens, can it be true, can I possibly be
absorbed in my own egoism when there is a soul like this living at my
side? And to know that one will never penetrate into that soul, never
will know why it grieves and why it rejoices, what is working within
it, what it desires--whither it is going . . . Tell me,' he said after
a short silence, 'could you never under any circumstances love an
artist?'

Elena looked straight into his eyes.

'I don't think so, Pavel Yakovlitch; no.'

'Which was to be proved,' said Shubin with comical dejection. 'After
which I suppose it would be more seemly for me not to intrude on your
solitary walk. A professor would ask you on what data you founded your
answer no. I'm not a professor though, but a baby according to your
ideas; but one does not turn one's back on a baby, remember.
Good-bye! Peace to my ashes!'