'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----'