‘I was admiring the view. Look how hot and bright those fields are in the sun.’ Bersenyev spoke with a slight lisp.
‘There’s some fine colour laid on there,’ observed Shubin. ‘Nature’s a good hand at it, that’s the fact!’
Bersenyev shook his head.
‘You ought to be even more ecstatic over it than I. It’s in your line: you’re an artist.’
‘No; it’s not in my line,’ rejoined Shubin, putting his hat on the back of his head. ‘Flesh is my line; my work’s with flesh—modelling flesh, shoulders, legs, and arms, and here there’s no form, no finish; it’s all over the place.... Catch it if you can.’
‘But there is beauty here, too,’ remarked Bersenyev.—‘By the way, have you finished your bas-relief?’
‘Which one?’
‘The boy with the goat.’
‘Hang it! Hang it! Hang it!’ cried Shubin, drawling—‘I looked at the genuine old things, the antiques, and I smashed my rubbish to pieces. You point to nature, and say “there’s beauty here, too.” Of course, there’s beauty in everything, even in your nose there’s beauty; but you can’t try after all kinds of beauty. The ancients, they didn’t try after it; beauty came down of itself upon their creations from somewhere or other—from heaven, I suppose. The whole world belonged to them; it’s not for us to be so large in our reach; our arms are short. We drop our hook into one little pool, and keep watch over it. If we get a bite, so much the better, if not——’
Shubin put out his tongue.