that she would not play cards, that it was a sin to play cards in such
weather, and one ought to enjoy nature. Panshin was the only guest. He
was stimulated by the beauty of the evening, and conscious of a flood of
artistic sensations, but he did not care to sing before Lavretsky, so he
fell to reading poetry; he read aloud well, but too self-consciously and
with unnecessary refinements, a few poems of Lermontov (Pushkin had not
then come into fashion again). Then suddenly, as though ashamed of his
enthusiasm, began, a propos of the well-known poem, "A Reverie," to
attack and fall foul of the younger generation. While doing so he did
not lose the opportunity of expounding how he would change everything!
after his own fashion, if the power were in his hands. "Russia," he
said, "has fallen behind Europe; we must catch her up. It is maintained
that we are young--that's nonsense. Moreover we have no inventiveness:
Homakov himself admits that we have not even invented mouse-traps.
Consequently, whether we will or no, we must borrow from others. We are
sick, Lermontov says--I agree with him. But we are sick from having only
half become Europeans, we must take a hair of the dog that bit us ("le
cadastre," thought Lavretsky). "The best head, les meilleures tetes,"
he continued, "among us have long been convinced of it. All peoples are
essentially alike; only introduce among them good institutions, and
the thing is done. Of course there may be adaptation to the existing
national life; that is our affair--the affair of the official (he
almost said "governing") class. But in case of need don't be uneasy.
The institutions will transform the life itself." Marya Dmitrievna
most feelingly assented to all Panshin said. "What a clever man," she
thought, "is talking in my drawing-room!" Lisa sat in silence leaning
back against the window; Lavretsky too was silent. Marfa Timofyevna,
playing cards with her old friend in the corner, muttered something to
herself. Panshin walked up and down the room, and spoke eloquently, but
with secret exasperation. It seemed as if he were abusing not a whole
generation but a few people known to him. In a great lilac bush in the
Kalitins' garden a nightingale had built its nest; its first evening
notes filled the pauses of the eloquent speech; the first stars were
beginning to shine in the rosy sky over the motionless tops of the
limes. Lavretsky got up and began to answer Panshin; an argument sprang
up. La