Personal character, my good sir, that is the chief thing; a man’s personality must be as strong as a rock since everything else is built up on it.
I am well aware, for instance, that you choose to consider my habits, my dress, even my tidiness, ridiculous; but all this comes from a sense of self-respect and of duty — yes, from a sense of duty.
I live in the wilds of the country, but I refuse to lower myself. I respect the dignity of man in myself.”
“Let me ask you, Pavel Petrovich,” muttered Bazarov, “you respect yourself and you sit with folded hands; what sort of benefit is that to the bien public?
If you didn’t respect yourself, you’d do just the same.
Pavel Petrovich turned pale.
“That is quite another question.
There is absolutely no need for me to explain to you now why I sit here with folded hands, as you are pleased to express yourself.
I wish only to tell you that aristocracy — is a principle, and that only depraved or stupid people can live in our time without principles.
I said as much to Arkady the day after he came home, and I repeat it to you now.
Isn’t that so, Nikolai?”
Nikolai Petrovich nodded his head.
“Aristocracy, liberalism, progress, principles,” said Bazarov. “Just think what a lot of foreign . . . and useless words!
To a Russian they’re no good for anything!”
“What is good for Russians according to you?
If we listen to you, we shall find ourselves beyond the pale of humanity, outside human laws.
Doesn’t the logic of history demand . . .”
“What’s the use of that logic to us?
We can get along without it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, this.
You don’t need logic, I suppose, to put a piece of bread in your mouth when you’re hungry.
For what do we need those abstractions?”
Pavel Petrovich raised his hands.
“I simply don’t understand you after all that.
You insult the Russian people.
I fail to understand how it is possible not to acknowledge principles, rules!
By virtue of what can you act?”
“I already told you, uncle dear, that we don’t recognize any authorities,” interposed Arkady.
“We act by virtue of what we recognize as useful,” went on Bazarov. “At present the most useful thing is denial, so we deny — ”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
“What? Not only art, poetry . . . but . . . the thought is appalling . . .”
“Everything,” repeated Bazarov with indescribable composure.
Pavel Petrovich stared at him.
He had not expected this, and Arkady even blushed with satisfaction.
“But allow me,” began Nikolai Petrovich. “You deny everything, or to put it more precisely, you destroy everything . . . But one must construct, too, you know.”
“That is not our business . . . we must first clear the ground.”
“The present condition of the people demands it,” added Arkady rather sententiously; “we must fulfill those demands, we have no right to yield to the satisfaction of personal egotism.”
That last phrase obviously displeased Bazarov; it smacked of philosophy, or romanticism, for Bazarov called philosophy a kind of romanticism — but he did not judge it necessary to correct his young disciple.
“No, no!” cried Pavel Petrovich with sudden vehemence. “I can’t believe that you young men really know the Russian people, that you represent their needs and aspirations!
No, the Russian people are not what you imagine them to be.
They hold tradition sacred, they are a patriarchal people, they cannot live without faith . . .”
“I’m not going to argue with you,” interrupted Bazarov. “I’m even ready to agree that there you are right.”
“And if I am right . . .”
“It proves nothing, all the same.”
“Exactly, it proves nothing,” repeated Arkady with the assurance of an experienced chess player who, having foreseen an apparently dangerous move on the part of his adversary, is not in the least put out by it.
“How can it prove nothing?” mumbled Pavel Petrovich in consternation. “In that case you must be going against your own people.”
“And what if we are?” exclaimed Bazarov. “The people imagine that when it thunders the prophet Ilya is riding across the sky in his chariot.
What then?