“Just think of it,” said Marie Alexandrovna, “I have taken to reading religious tracts, I listen to Father Nicodim’s sermons, and believe me”⁠—here her smiling eyes shone with a glance so bright that it brought to mind the independence of thought which was so characteristic of her⁠—“believe me, all these pious exhortations are infinitely inferior to the sayings of Peter Nikiforovich. They deal with the same things, but on a much lower plane. But, above all, he taught one not so much by precept as by practice. And how did he do it? Why, his whole life was a flame, and it consumed him. Do you remember when Mitia and Vera had scarlatina⁠—you were staying with us⁠—do you remember how he sat up at night with them, but insisted upon going on with his lessons with the older children during the day? He regarded it as a sacred duty. And then, when Barbara’s boy was ill, he did the same thing, and was quite angry because we would not have the child moved to our house. Barbara was talking about him only the other day. Then when Vania, the page boy, broke his bust of some sage or other, do you remember how, after scolding him, he went out of his way to atone for his anger, begged the boy’s pardon, and bought him a ticket for the circus. He was a wonderful man.