ly, 'I understand why you
come every summer into the country. This period of rest is essential for
you; the peace of the country after your life in the capital refreshes
and strengthens you. I am convinced that you must be profoundly
sensitive to the beauties of nature.'

Darya Mihailovna gave Rudin a sidelong look.

'Nature--yes--yes--of course.... I am passionately fond of it; but do
you know, Dmitri Nikolaitch, even in the country one cannot do without
society. And here there is practically none. Pigasov is the most
intelligent person here.'

'The cross old gentleman who was here last night?' inquired Rudin.

'Yes.... In the country though, even he is of use--he sometimes makes
one laugh.'

'He is by no means stupid,' returned Rudin, 'but he is on the wrong
path. I don't know whether you will agree with me, Darya Mihailovna, but
in negation--in complete and universal negation--there is no salvation
to be found? Deny everything and you will easily pass for a man of
ability; it's a well-known trick. Simple-hearted people are quite ready
to conclude that you are worth more than what you deny. And that's
often an error. In the first place, you can pick holes in anything; and
secondly, even if you are right in what you say, it's the worse for
you; your intellect, directed by simple negation, grows colourless and
withers up. While you gratify your vanity, you are deprived of the true
consolations of thought; life--the essence of life--evades your
petty and jaundiced criticism, and you end by scolding and becoming
ridiculous. Only one who loves has the right to censure and find fault.'

'Voila, Monsieur Pigasov enterre,' observed Darya Mihailovna. 'What a
genius you have for defining a man! But Pigasov certainly would not have
even understood you. He loves nothing but his own individuality.'

'And he finds fault with that so as to have the right to find fault with
others,' Rudin put in.

Darya Mihailovna laughed.

'"He judges the sound," as the saying is, "the sound by the sick." By
the way, what do you think of the baron?'

'The baron? He is an excellent man, with a good heart and a knowledge
... but he has no character... and he will remain all his life half a
savant, half a man of the world, that is to say, a dilettante, that is
to say, to speak plainly,--neither one thing nor the other. ... But it's
a pity!'

'That was my own idea,' observed Darya Mihailovna. 'I read his
article.... _Entre nous... cela a a