of the gab when the talk's about his--between ourselves let it be
said--tedious Bulgaria. What! do you say I am unjust? One remark
more: you'll never come to Christian names with him, and none ever has
been on such terms with him. I, of course, as an artist, am hateful
to him; and I am proud of it. Dry as dust, dry as dust, but he can
crush all of us to powder. He's devoted to his country--not like our
empty patriots who fawn on the people; pour into us, they say, thou
living water! But, of course, his problem is easier, more
intelligible: he has only to drive the Turks out, a mighty task. But
all these qualities, thank God, don't please women. There's no
fascination, no charm about them, as there is about you and me.'

'Why do you bring me in?' muttered Bersenyev. 'And you are wrong in
all the rest; you are not in the least hateful to him, and with his
own countrymen he is on Christian name terms--that I know.'

'That's a different matter! For them he's a hero; but, to make a
confession, I have a very different idea of a hero; a hero ought not
to be able to talk; a hero should roar like a bull, but when he butts
with his horns, the walls shake. He ought not to know himself why he
butts at things, but just to butt at them. But, perhaps, in our days
heroes of a different stamp are needed.'

'Why are you so taken up with Insarov?' asked Bersenyev. 'Can you
have run here only to describe his character to me?'

'I came here,' began Shubin, 'because I was very miserable at home.'

'Oh, that's it! Don't you want to have a cry again?'