high--I mean that I am too little
prepared, but I hope to get permission for a course of travel abroad; I
shall pass three or four years in that way, if necessary, and then----'

He stopped, dropped his eyes, then quickly raising them again, he gave
an embarrassed smile and smoothed his hair. When Bersenyev was talking
to a woman, his words came out more slowly, and he lisped more than
ever.

'You want to be a professor of history?' inquired Elena.

'Yes, or of philosophy,' he added, in a lower voice--'if that is
possible.'

'He's a perfect devil at philosophy already,' observed Shubin, making
deep lines in the clay with his nail. 'What does he want to go abroad
for?'

'And will you be perfectly contented with such a position?' asked Elena,
leaning on her elbow and looking him straight in the face.

'Perfectly, Elena Nikolaevna, perfectly. What could be a finer vocation?
To follow, perhaps, in the steps of Timofay Nikolaevitch ... The very
thought of such work fills me with delight and confusion ... yes,
confusion... which comes from a sense of my own deficiency. My dear
father consecrated me to this work... I shall never forget his last
words.'...

'Your father died last winter?'

'Yes, Elena Nikolaevna, in February.'

'They say,' Elena went on, 'that he left a remarkable work in
manuscript; is it true?'

'Yes. He was a wonderful man. You would have loved him, Elena
Nikolaevna.'

'I am sure I should. And what was the subject of the work?'

'To give you an idea of the subject of the work in few words, Elena
Nikolaevna, would be somewhat difficult. My father was a learned man, a
Schellingist; he used terms which were not always very clear----'

'Andrei Petrovitch,' interrupted Elena, 'excuse my ignorance, what does
that mean, a Schellingist?'

Bersenyev smiled slightly.

'A Schellingist means a follower of Schelling, a German philosopher; and
what the philosophy of Schelling consists in----'

'Andrei Petrovitch!' cried Shubin suddenly, 'for mercy's sake! Surely
you don't mean to give Elena Nikolaevna a lecture on Schelling? Have
pity on her!'

'Not a lecture at all,' murmured Bersenyev, turning crimson. 'I
meant----'

'And why not a lecture?' put in Elena. 'You and I are in need of
lectures, Pavel Yakovlitch.'

Shubin stared at her, and suddenly burst out laughing.

'What are you laughing at?' she said coldly, and almost sharply.

Shubin did not answer.

'Come, don't be angry,' he said, aft