Fathers and Children Ivan Turgenev (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📖

of such slipshod forms; as much as to say, “We, of course, are born Russians, at the same time we are great swells, who are at liberty to neglect the rules of scholars”); “I am tryin’ to prove by that, sir, that without the sense of personal dignity, without self-respect⁠—and these two sentiments are well developed in the aristocrat⁠—there is no secure foundation for the social⁠ ⁠… bien public⁠ ⁠… the social fabric. Personal character, sir⁠—that is the chief thing; a man’s personal character must be firm as a rock, since everything is built on it. I am very well aware, for instance, that you are pleased to consider my habits, my dress, my refinements, in fact, ridiculous; but all that proceeds from a sense of self-respect, from a sense of duty⁠—yes, indeed, of duty. I live in the country, in the wilds, but I will not lower myself. I respect the dignity of man in myself.”

“Let me ask you, Pavel Petrovitch,” commented Bazarov; “you respect yourself, and sit with your hands folded; what sort of benefit does that do to the bien public? If you didn’t respect yourself, you’d do just the same.”

Pavel Petrovitch turned white. “That’s a different question. It’s absolutely unnecessary for me to explain to you now why I sit with folded hands, as you are pleased to express yourself. I wish only to tell you that aristocracy is a principle, and in our days none but immoral or silly people can live without principles. I said that to Arkady the day after he came home, and I repeat it now. Isn’t it so, Nikolai?”

Nikolai Petrovitch nodded his head.

“Aristocracy, Liberalism, progress, principles,” Bazarov was saying meanwhile; “if you think of it, what a lot of foreign⁠ ⁠… and useless words! To a Russian they’re good for nothing.”

“What is good for something according to you? If we listen to you, we shall find ourselves outside humanity, outside its laws. Come⁠—the logic of history demands⁠ ⁠…”

“But what’s that logic to us? We can get on without that too.”

“How do you mean?”

“Why, this. You don’t need logic, I hope, to put a bit of bread in your mouth when you’re hungry. What’s the object of these abstractions to us?”

Pavel Petrovitch raised his hands in horror.

“I don’t understand you, after that. You insult the Russian people. I don’t understand how it’s possible not to acknowledge principles, rules! By virtue of what do you act then?”

“I’ve told you already, uncle, that we don’t accept any authorities,” put in Arkady.

“We act by virtue of what we recognise as beneficial,” observed Bazarov. “At the present time, negation is the most beneficial of all⁠—and we deny⁠—”

“Everything?”

“Everything!”

“What? not only art and poetry⁠ ⁠… but even⁠ ⁠… horrible to say⁠ ⁠…”

“Everything,” repeated Bazarov, with indescribable composure.

Pavel Petrovitch stared at him. He had not expected this; while Arkady fairly blushed with delight.

“Allow me, though,” began Nikolai Petrovitch. “You deny everything; or, speaking more precisely, you destroy everything.⁠ ⁠… But one must construct too, you know.”

“That’s not our business now.⁠ ⁠… The ground wants clearing first.”

“The present condition of the people requires it,” added Arkady, with dignity; “we are bound to carry out these requirements, we have no right to yield to the satisfaction of our personal egoism.”

This last phrase obviously displeased Bazarov; there was a flavour of philosophy, that is to say, romanticism about it, for Bazarov called philosophy, too, romanticism, but he did not think it necessary to correct his young disciple.

“No, no!” cried Pavel Petrovitch, with sudden energy. “I’m not willing to believe that you, young men, know the Russian people really, that you are the representatives of their requirements, their efforts! No; the Russian people is not what you imagine it. Tradition it holds sacred; it is a patriarchal people; it cannot live without faith⁠ ⁠…”

“I’m not going to dispute that,” Bazarov interrupted. “I’m even ready to agree that in that you’re right.”

“But if I am right⁠ ⁠…”

“And, all the same, that proves nothing.”

“It just proves nothing,” repeated Arkady, with the confidence of a practised chess-player, who has foreseen an apparently dangerous move on the part of his adversary, and so is not at all taken aback by it.

“How does it prove nothing?” muttered Pavel Petrovitch, astounded. “You must be going against the people then?”

“And what if we are?” shouted Bazarov. “The people imagine that, when it thunders, the prophet Ilya’s riding across the sky in his chariot. What then? Are we to agree with them? Besides, the people’s Russian; but am I not Russian too?”

“No, you are not Russian, after all you have just been saying! I can’t acknowledge you as Russian.”

“My grandfather ploughed the land,” answered Bazarov with haughty pride. “Ask any one of your peasants which of us⁠—you or me⁠—he’d more readily acknowledge as a fellow-countryman. You don’t even know how to talk to them.”

“While you talk to him and despise him at the same time.”

“Well, suppose he deserves contempt. You find fault with my attitude, but how do you know that I have got it by chance, that it’s not a product of that very national spirit, in the name of which you wage war on it?”

“What an idea! Much use in nihilists!”

“Whether they’re of use or not, is not for us to decide. Why, even you suppose you’re not a useless person.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, no personalities, please!” cried Nikolai Petrovitch, getting up.

Pavel Petrovitch smiled, and laying his hand on his brother’s shoulder, forced him to sit down again.

“Don’t be uneasy,” he said; “I shall not forget myself, just through that sense of dignity which is made fun of so mercilessly by our friend⁠—our friend, the doctor. Let me ask,” he resumed, turning again to Bazarov; “you suppose, possibly, that your doctrine is a novelty? That is quite a mistake. The materialism you advocate has been more than once in vogue already, and has always proved insufficient⁠ ⁠…”

“A foreign word again!” broke in Bazarov. He was beginning to feel vicious, and his face assumed a peculiar coarse coppery hue. “In the first place, we advocate nothing; that’s not our