Fathers and Children, Ivan Turgenev [best book reader .TXT] 📗

“What do you do, then?”

“I’ll tell you what we do. Not long ago we used to say that our officials took bribes, that we had no roads, no commerce, no real justice⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh, I see, you are reformers⁠—that’s what that’s called, I fancy. I too should agree to many of your reforms, but⁠ ⁠…”

“Then we suspected that talk, perpetual talk, and nothing but talk, about our social diseases, was not worth while, that it all led to nothing but superficiality and pedantry; we saw that our leading men, so-called advanced people and reformers, are no good; that we busy ourselves over foolery, talk rubbish about art, unconscious creativeness, parliamentarism, trial by jury, and the deuce knows what all; while, all the while, it’s a question of getting bread to eat, while we’re stifling under the grossest superstition, while all our enterprises come to grief, simply because there aren’t honest men enough to carry them on, while the very emancipation our Government’s busy upon will hardly come to any good, because peasants are glad to rob even themselves to get drunk at the gin-shop.”

“Yes,” interposed Pavel Petrovitch, “yes; you were convinced of all this, and decided not to undertake anything seriously, yourselves.”

“We decided not to undertake anything,” repeated Bazarov grimly. He suddenly felt vexed with himself for having, without reason, been so expansive before this gentleman.

“But to confine yourselves to abuse?”

“To confine ourselves to abuse.”

“And that is called nihilism?”

“And that’s called nihilism,” Bazarov repeated again, this time with peculiar rudeness.

Pavel Petrovitch puckered up his face a little. “So that’s it!” he observed in a strangely composed voice. “Nihilism is to cure all our woes, and you, you are our heroes and saviours. But why do you abuse others, those reformers even? Don’t you do as much talking as everyone else?”

“Whatever faults we have, we do not err in that way,” Bazarov muttered between his teeth.

“What, then? Do you act, or what? Are you preparing for action?”

Bazarov made no answer. Something like a tremor passed over Pavel Petrovitch, but he at once regained control of himself.

“Hm!⁠ ⁠… Action, destruction⁠ ⁠…” he went on. “But how destroy without even knowing why?”

“We shall destroy, because we are a force,” observed Arkady.

Pavel Petrovitch looked at his nephew and laughed.

“Yes, a force is not to be called to account,” said Arkady, drawing himself up.

“Unhappy boy!” wailed Pavel Petrovitch, he was positively incapable of maintaining his firm demeanour any longer. “If you could only realise what it is you are doing for your country. No; it’s enough to try the patience of an angel! Force! There’s force in the savage Kalmuck, in the Mongolian; but what is it to us? What is precious to us is civilisation; yes, yes, sir, its fruits are precious to us. And don’t tell me those fruits are worthless; the poorest dauber, un barbouilleur, the man who plays dance music for five farthings an evening, is of more use than you, because they are the representatives of civilisation, and not of brute Mongolian force! You fancy yourselves advanced people, and all the while you are only fit for the Kalmuck’s hovel! Force! And recollect, you forcible gentlemen, that you’re only four men and a half, and the others are millions, who won’t let you trample their sacred traditions under foot, who will crush you and walk over you!”

“If we’re crushed, serve us right,” observed Bazarov. “But that’s an open question. We are not so few as you suppose.”

“What? You seriously suppose you will come to terms with a whole people?”

“All Moscow was burnt down, you know, by a farthing dip,” answered Bazarov.

“Yes, yes. First a pride almost Satanic, then ridicule⁠—that, that’s what it is attracts the young, that’s what gains an ascendancy over the inexperienced hearts of boys! Here’s one of them sitting beside you, ready to worship the ground under your feet. Look at him! (Arkady turned away and frowned.) And this plague has spread far already. I have been told that in Rome our artists never set foot in the Vatican. Raphael they regard as almost a fool, because, if you please, he’s an authority; while they’re all the while most disgustingly sterile and unsuccessful, men whose imagination does not soar beyond Girls at a Fountain, however they try! And the girls even out of drawing. They are fine fellows to your mind, are they not?”

“To my mind,” retorted Bazarov, “Raphael’s not worth a brass farthing; and they’re no better than he.”

“Bravo! bravo! Listen, Arkady⁠ ⁠… that’s how young men of today ought to express themselves! And if you come to think of it, how could they fail to follow you! In old days, young men had to study; they didn’t want to be called dunces, so they had to work hard whether they liked it or not. But now, they need only say, ‘Everything in the world is foolery!’ and the trick’s done. Young men are delighted. And, to be sure, they were simply geese before, and now they have suddenly turned nihilists.”

“Your praiseworthy sense of personal dignity has given way,” remarked Bazarov phlegmatically, while Arkady was hot all over, and his eyes were flashing. “Our argument has gone too far; it’s better to cut it short, I think. I shall be quite ready to agree with you,” he added, getting up, “when you bring forward a single institution in our present mode of life, in family or in social life, which does not call for complete and unqualified destruction.”

“I will bring forward millions of such institutions,” cried Pavel Petrovitch⁠—“millions! Well⁠—the Mir, for instance.”

A cold smile curved Bazarov’s lips. “Well, as regards the Mir,” he commented; “you had better talk to your brother. He has seen by now, I should fancy, what sort of thing the Mir is in fact⁠—its common guarantee, its sobriety, and other features of the kind.”

“The family, then, the family as it exists among our peasants!” cried Pavel Petrovitch.

“And that subject, too, I imagine, it will be better for yourselves not to go into in detail. Don’t