‘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?’