“How is that?”
“Well, take me for instance; I adopt a negative attitude by virtue of my sensations; I like to deny, my brain is made like that — and there’s nothing more to it.
Why does chemistry appeal to me?
Why do you like apples? — also by virtue of our sensations.
It’s all the same thing.
People will never penetrate deeper than that.
Not everyone would tell you so, and another time I shouldn’t tell you so myself.”
“What, and is honesty also — a sensation?”
“I should think so.”
“Evgeny . . .!” began Arkady in a dejected tone.
“Well? What? That’s not to your taste?” broke in Bazarov. “No, brother.
If you’ve made up your mind to mow down everything — don’t spare your own legs . . .!
But we’ve philosophized enough.
‘Nature heaps up the silence of sleep,’ said Pushkin.”
“He never said anything of the kind,” retorted Arkady.
“Well, if he didn’t, he might have and ought to have said it as a poet.
By the way, he must have served in the army.”
“Pushkin was never in the army!”
“Why, on every page of his one reads, to arms! to arms! for Russia’s honor!”
“What legends you invent!
Really, it’s positive slander.”
“Slander?
There’s a weighty matter.
He’s found a solemn word to frighten me with.
Whatever slander you may utter against a man, you may be sure he deserves twenty times worse than that in reality.”
“We had better go to sleep,” said Arkady with vexation.
“With the greatest of pleasure,” answered Bazarov.
But neither of them slept.
Some kind of almost hostile feeling had taken hold of both young men.
Five minutes later, they opened their eyes and glanced at each other in silence.
“Look,” said Arkady suddenly, “a dry maple leaf has broken off and is falling to the ground; its movements are exactly like a butterfly’s flight.
Isn’t it strange?
Such a gloomy dead thing so like the most care-free and lively one.”
“Oh, my friend Arkady Nikolaich,” exclaimed Bazarov, “one thing I implore of you; no beautiful talk.”
“I talk as I best know how to . . . yes, really this is sheer despotism.
A thought came into my head; why shouldn’t I express it?”
“All right, and why shouldn’t I express my thoughts?
I think that sort of beautiful talk is positively indecent.”
“And what is decent?
Abuse?”
“Ah, so I see clearly you intend to follow in your uncle’s footsteps.
How pleased that idiot would be if he could hear you now!”
“What did you call Pavel Petrovich?”
“I called him, as he deserves to be called, an idiot.”
“Really, this is unbearable,” cried Arkady.
“Aha! family feeling spoke out,” remarked Bazarov coolly. “I’ve noticed how obstinately it clings to people.
A man is ready to give up everything and break with every prejudice; but to admit, for instance, that his brother who steals other people’s handkerchiefs is a thief — that’s beyond his power.
And as a matter of fact — to think — my brother, mine — and no genius — that’s more than one can swallow!”
“A simple sense of justice spoke in me and no family feeling at all,” retorted Arkady vehemently. “But since you don’t understand such a feeling, as it’s not among your sensations, you’re in no position to judge it!”
“In other words, Arkady Kirsanov is too exalted for my understanding. I bow down to him and say no more.”