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On the Eve by Garnett, Constance, 1861-1946, Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich, 1818-1883
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A word from our supporters: File extension EX | '"I know," he said, "that in many cases the man who accepts a bribe is not to blame; he cannot do otherwise. Still, if he is found out, he must be punished without mercy."' I cried, "Punish an innocent man!" '"Yes; for the sake of principle." '"What principle?" asked Shubin. Kurnatovsky seemed annoyed or surprised, and said, "That needs no explanation." 'Papa, who seems to worship him, put in "of course not"; and to my vexation the conversation stopped there. In the evening Bersenyev came and got into a terrific argument with him. I have never seen our good Andrei Petrovitch so excited. Mr. Kurnatovsky did not at all deny the utility of science, universities, and so on, but still I understood Andrei Petrovitch's indignation. The man looks at it all as a sort of gymnastics. Shubin came up to me after dinner, and said, "This fellow here and some one else (he can never bring himself to utter your name) are both practical men, but see what a difference; there's the real living ideal given to life; and here there's not even a feeling of duty, simply official honesty and activity without anything inside it." Shubin is clever, and I remembered his words to tell you; but to my mind there is nothing in common between you. You have _faith_, and he has not; for a man cannot _have faith_ in himself only. 'He did not go away till late; but mamma had time to inform me that he was pleased with me, and papa is in ecstasies. Did he say, I wonder, that I was a woman of principle? I was almost telling mamma that I was very sorry, but I had a husband already. Why is it papa dislikes you so? Mamma, we could soon manage to bring round. 'Oh, my dear one! I have described this gentleman in such detail to deaden my heartache. I don't live without you; I am constantly seeing you, hearing you. I look forward to seeing you--only not at our house, as you intended--fancy how wretched and ill at ease we should be!--but you know where I wrote to you--in that wood. Oh, my dear one! How I love you!' XXIII |