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, after a short pause. “I am sorry. But really it’s a strange taste, upon my word, to discuss philosophy in weather like this under these trees. Let us rather talk of nightingales and roses, youthful eyes and smiles.”
“Yes; and of French novels, and of feminine frills and fal-lals,” Elena went on.
“Fal-lals, too, of course,” rejoined Shubin, “if they’re pretty.”
“Of course. But suppose we don’t want to talk of frills? You are always boasting of being a free artist; why do you encroach on the freedom of others? And allow me to inquire, if that’s your bent of mind, why do you attack Zoya? With her it would be peculiarly suitable to talk of frills and roses?”
Shubin suddenly fired up, and rose from the garden seat. “So that’s it?” he began in a nervous voice. “I understand your hint; you want to send me away to her, Elena Nikolaevna. In other words, I’m not wanted here.”
“I never thought of sending you away from here.”
“Do you mean to say,” Shubin continued passionately, “that I am not worthy of other society, that I am her equal; that I am as vain, and silly and petty as that mawkish German girl? Is that it?”
Elena frowned. “You did not always speak like that of her, Pavel Yakovlitch,” she remarked.
“Ah! reproaches! reproaches now!” cried Shubin. “Well, then I don’t deny there was a moment—one moment precisely, when those fresh, vulgar cheeks of hers … But if I wanted to repay you with reproaches and remind you … Goodbye,” he added suddenly, “I feel I shall say something silly.”
And with a blow on the clay moulded into the shape of a head, he ran out of the arbour and went off to his room.
“What a baby,” said Elena, looking after him.
“He’s an artist,” observed Bersenyev with a quiet smile. “All artists are like that. One must forgive them their caprices. That is their privilege.”
“Yes,” replied Elena; “but Pavel has not so far justified his claim to that privilege in any way. What has he done so far? Give me your arm, and let us go along the avenue. He was in our way. We were talking of your father’s works.”
Bersenyev took Elena’s arm in his, and walked beside her through the garden; but the conversation prematurely broken off was not renewed. Bersenyev began again unfolding his views on the vocation of a professor, and on his own future career. He walked slowly beside Elena, moving awkwardly, awkwardly holding her arm, sometimes jostling his shoulder against her, and not once looking at her; but his talk flowed more easily, even if not perfectly freely; he spoke simply and genuinely, and his eyes, as they strayed slowly over the trunks of the trees, the sand of the path and the grass, were bright with the quiet ardour of generous emotions, while in his soothed voice there was heard the delight of a man who feels that he is succeeding in expressing himself to one very dear to him. Elena listened to him very attentively, and turning half towards him, did not take her eyes off his face, which had grown a little paler—off his eyes, which were soft and affectionate, though they avoided meeting her eyes. Her soul expanded; and something tender, holy, and good seemed half sinking into her heart, half springing up within it.
V
Shubin did not leave his room before night. It was already quite dark; the moon—not yet at the full—stood high in the sky, the milky way shone white, and the stars spotted the heavens, when Bersenyev, after taking leave of Anna Vassilyevna,
