Force!
There’s force in the savage Kalmuk, in the Mongol, but what is that to us?
What is dear to us is civilization, yes, yes, my good sir, its fruits are precious to us.
And don’t you tell me these fruits are worthless; the poorest dauber, un barbouilleur, the man who plays dance music for five farthings an evening, even they are of more use than you because they stand for civilization and not for brute Mongolian force!
You fancy yourselves as advanced people, and yet you’re only fit for the Kalmuk’s dirty hovel!
Force!
And remember, you forceful gentlemen, that you’re only four men and a half, and the others — are millions, who won’t let you trample their sacred beliefs under foot, but will crush you instead!”
“If we’re crushed, that’s in store for us,” said Bazarov. “But it’s an open question.
We’re not so few as you suppose.”
“What?
You seriously suppose you can set yourself up against a whole people?”
“All Moscow was burnt down, you know, by a penny candle,” answered Bazarov.
“Indeed!
First comes an almost Satanic pride, then cynical jeers — so that is what attracts the young, what takes by storm the inexperienced hearts of boys!
Here is one of them sitting beside you, ready to worship the ground beneath your feet. Look at him. (Arkady turned aside and frowned.) And this plague has already spread far and wide.
I am told that in Rome our artists don’t even enter the Vatican.
Raphael they regard as a fool, because, of course, he is an authority; and these artists are themselves disgustingly sterile and weak, men whose imagination can soar no higher than Girls at a Fountain — and even the girls are abominably drawn!
They are fine fellows in your view, I suppose?”
“To my mind,” retorted Bazarov, “Raphael isn’t worth a brass farthing, and they’re no better than he.”
“Bravo, bravo!
Listen, Arkady . . . that is how modern young men should express themselves!
And if you come to think of it, they’re bound to follow you.
Formerly young men had to study. If they didn’t want to be called fools they had to work hard whether they liked it or not.
But now they need only say ‘Everything in the world is rubbish!’ and the trick is done.
Young men are delighted.
And, to be sure, they were only sheep before, but now they have suddenly turned into Nihilists.”
“You have departed from your praiseworthy sense of personal dignity,” remarked Bazarov phlegmatically, while Arkady had turned hot all over and his eyes were flashing. “Our argument has gone too far . . . better cut it short, I think.
I shall be quite ready to agree with you,” he added, getting up, “when you can show me a single institution in our present mode of life, in the family or in society, which does not call for complete and ruthless destruction.”
“I can show you millions of such institutions!” cried Pavel Petrovich — “millions!
Well, take the commune, for instance.”
A cold smile distorted Bazarov’s lips.
“Well, you had better talk to your brother about the commune.
I should think he has seen by now what the commune is like in reality — its mutual guarantees, its sobriety and suchlike.”
“Well, the family, the family as it exists among our peasants,” cried Pavel Petrovich.
“On that subject, too, I think it will be better for you not to enter into too much detail.
You know how the head of the family chooses his daughters-in-law?
Take my advice, Pavel Petrovich, allow yourself a day or two to think it all over; you’ll hardly find anything straight away.
Go through the various classes of our society and examine them carefully, meanwhile Arkady and I will — ”
“Will go on abusing everything,” broke in Pavel Petrovich.
“No, we will go on dissecting frogs.
Come, Arkady; good-by for the present, gentlemen!”
The two friends walked off.
The brothers were left alone and at first only looked at each other.
“So that,” began Pavel Petrovich, “that is our modern youth!
Those young men are our heirs!”
“Our heirs!” repeated Nikolai Petrovich with a weary smile.
He had been sitting as if on thorns throughout the argument, and only from time to time cast a sad furtive glance at Arkady. “Do you know what I was reminded of, brother?
I once quarreled with our mother; she shouted and wouldn’t listen to me. At last I said to her, ‘Of course you can’t understand me; we belong to two different generations.’
She was terribly offended, but I thought,
‘It can’t be helped — a bitter pill, but she has to swallow it.’