‘Of course,’ Shubin broke in, ‘she is pretty, very pretty; I am sure that no one who meets her could fail to think: that’s some one I should like to--dance a polka with; I’m sure, too, that she knows that, and is pleased.... Else, what’s the meaning of those modest simpers, that discreet air? There, you know what I mean,’ he muttered between his teeth. ‘But now you’re absorbed in something else.’ And breaking up the bust of Zoya, Shubin set hastily to modelling and kneading the clay again with an air of vexation. ‘So it is your wish to be a professor?’ said Elena to Bersenyev. ‘Yes,’ he answered, squeezing his red hands between his knees. ‘That’s my cherished dream. Of course I know very well how far I fall short of being--to be worthy of such a 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----’