that even if there were an outlet from it, it might go to the deuce, I shouldn’t look for it!’
‘But that means — pardon the expression — to prefer the gratification of your own pride to the desire to be and live in the truth.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ cried Pigasov, ‘pride — that I understand, and you, I expect, understand, and every one understands; but truth, what is truth? Where is it, this truth?’
‘You are repeating yourself, let me warn you,’ remarked Darya Mihailovna.
Pigasov shrugged his shoulders.
‘Well, where’s the harm if I do? I ask: where is truth? Even the philosophers don’t know what it is. Kant says it is one thing; but Hegel — no, you’re wrong, it’s something else.’
‘And do you know what Hegel says of it?’ asked Rudin, without raising his voice.
‘I repeat,’ continued Pigasov, flying into a passion, ‘that I cannot understand what truth means. According to my idea, it doesn’t exist at all in the world, that is to say, the word exists but not the thing itself.’
‘Fie, fie!’ cried Darya Mihailovna, ‘I wonder you’re not ashamed to say so, you old sinner! No truth? What is there to live for in the world after that?’
‘Well, I go so far as to think, Darya Mihailovna,’ retorted Pigasov, in a tone of annoyance, ‘that it would be much easier for you, in any case, to live without truth than without your cook, Stepan, who is such a master hand at soups! And what do you want with truth, kindly tell me? you can’t trim a bonnet with it!’
‘A joke is not an argument,’ observed Darya Mihailovna, ‘especially when you descend to personal insult.’
‘I don’t know about truth, but I see speaking it does not answer,’ muttered Pigasov, and he turned angrily away.
And Rudin began to speak of pride, and he spoke well. He showed that man without pride is worthless, that pride is the lever by which the earth can be moved from its foundations, but that at the same time he alone deserves the name of man who knows how to control his pride, as the rider does his horse, who offers up his own personality as a sacrifice to the general good.
‘Egoism,’ so he ended, ‘is suicide. The egoist withers like a solitary barren tree; but pride, ambition, as the active effort after perfection, is the source of all that is great.... Yes! a man must prune away the stubborn egoism of his personality to give it the right of self - expression.’
‘Can you lend me a pencil?’ Pigasov asked Bassistoff.
Bassistoff did not at once understand what Pigasov had asked him.
‘What do you want a pencil for?’ he said at last
‘I want to write down Mr. Rudin’s last sentence. If one doesn’t write it down, one might forget it, I’m afraid! But you will own, a sentence like that is such a handful of trumps.’
‘There are things which it is a shame to laugh at and make fun of, African Semenitch!’ said Bassistoff warmly, turning away from Pigasov.
Meanwhile Rudin had approached Natalya. She got up; her face expressed her confusion. Volintsev, who was sitting near her, got up too.
‘I see a piano,’ began Rudin, with the gentle courtesy of a travelling prince; ‘don’t you play on it?’
‘Yes, I play,’ replied Natalya, ‘but not very well. Here is Konstantin Diomiditch plays much better than I do.’
Pandalevsky put himself forward with a simper. ‘You should not say that, Natalya Alexyevna; your playing is not at all inferior to mine.’
‘Do you know Schubert’s “Erlkonig”?’ asked Rudin.
‘He knows it, he knows it!’ interposed Darya Mihailovna. ‘Sit down, Konstantin. You are fond of music, Dmitri Nikolaitch?’
Rudin only made a slight motion of the head and ran his hand through his hair, as though disposing himself to listen. Pandalevsky began to play.
Natalya was standing near the piano, directly facing Rudin. At the first sound his face was transfigured. His dark blue eyes moved slowly about, from time to time resting upon Natalya.
‘But that means — pardon the expression — to prefer the gratification of your own pride to the desire to be and live in the truth.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ cried Pigasov, ‘pride — that I understand, and you, I expect, understand, and every one understands; but truth, what is truth? Where is it, this truth?’
‘You are repeating yourself, let me warn you,’ remarked Darya Mihailovna.
Pigasov shrugged his shoulders.
‘Well, where’s the harm if I do? I ask: where is truth? Even the philosophers don’t know what it is. Kant says it is one thing; but Hegel — no, you’re wrong, it’s something else.’
‘And do you know what Hegel says of it?’ asked Rudin, without raising his voice.
‘I repeat,’ continued Pigasov, flying into a passion, ‘that I cannot understand what truth means. According to my idea, it doesn’t exist at all in the world, that is to say, the word exists but not the thing itself.’
‘Fie, fie!’ cried Darya Mihailovna, ‘I wonder you’re not ashamed to say so, you old sinner! No truth? What is there to live for in the world after that?’
‘Well, I go so far as to think, Darya Mihailovna,’ retorted Pigasov, in a tone of annoyance, ‘that it would be much easier for you, in any case, to live without truth than without your cook, Stepan, who is such a master hand at soups! And what do you want with truth, kindly tell me? you can’t trim a bonnet with it!’
‘A joke is not an argument,’ observed Darya Mihailovna, ‘especially when you descend to personal insult.’
‘I don’t know about truth, but I see speaking it does not answer,’ muttered Pigasov, and he turned angrily away.
And Rudin began to speak of pride, and he spoke well. He showed that man without pride is worthless, that pride is the lever by which the earth can be moved from its foundations, but that at the same time he alone deserves the name of man who knows how to control his pride, as the rider does his horse, who offers up his own personality as a sacrifice to the general good.
‘Egoism,’ so he ended, ‘is suicide. The egoist withers like a solitary barren tree; but pride, ambition, as the active effort after perfection, is the source of all that is great.... Yes! a man must prune away the stubborn egoism of his personality to give it the right of self - expression.’
‘Can you lend me a pencil?’ Pigasov asked Bassistoff.
Bassistoff did not at once understand what Pigasov had asked him.
‘What do you want a pencil for?’ he said at last
‘I want to write down Mr. Rudin’s last sentence. If one doesn’t write it down, one might forget it, I’m afraid! But you will own, a sentence like that is such a handful of trumps.’
‘There are things which it is a shame to laugh at and make fun of, African Semenitch!’ said Bassistoff warmly, turning away from Pigasov.
Meanwhile Rudin had approached Natalya. She got up; her face expressed her confusion. Volintsev, who was sitting near her, got up too.
‘I see a piano,’ began Rudin, with the gentle courtesy of a travelling prince; ‘don’t you play on it?’
‘Yes, I play,’ replied Natalya, ‘but not very well. Here is Konstantin Diomiditch plays much better than I do.’
Pandalevsky put himself forward with a simper. ‘You should not say that, Natalya Alexyevna; your playing is not at all inferior to mine.’
‘Do you know Schubert’s “Erlkonig”?’ asked Rudin.
‘He knows it, he knows it!’ interposed Darya Mihailovna. ‘Sit down, Konstantin. You are fond of music, Dmitri Nikolaitch?’
Rudin only made a slight motion of the head and ran his hand through his hair, as though disposing himself to listen. Pandalevsky began to play.
Natalya was standing near the piano, directly facing Rudin. At the first sound his face was transfigured. His dark blue eyes moved slowly about, from time to time resting upon Natalya.
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