ture.

Panshine was the only stranger present. Influenced by the evening,
and feeling a flow of artistic emotion, but not wishing to sing in
Lavretsky's presence, he threw himself into poetry He read--and read
well, only with too much consciousness, and with needlessly subtle
distinctions--some of Lermontof's poems (Pushkin had not then
succeeded in getting back into fashion). Suddenly, as if ashamed of
his emotion, he began in reference to the well-known _Duma_,[A] to
blame and attack the new generation, not losing the opportunity which
the subject afforded him of setting forth how, if the power lay in his
hands, he would alter everything his own way.

[Footnote A: For the poem, so-called, see note at end of chapter.]

"Russia," he said, "has lagged behind Europe, and must be driven up
alongside of it. We are told that ours is a young country. That is all
nonsense. Besides, we have no inventive power. Khomakof[A] himself
admits that we have never invented so much as a mousetrap.
Consequently we are obliged to imitate others, whether we like it or
no."

[Footnote A: A poet, who was one of the leaders of the Slavophile
party.]

"'We are ill,' says Lermontof, and I agree with him. But we are ill
because we have only half become Europeans. With that which has
wounded us we must be cured." ("_Le cadastre_" thought Lavretsky.)
"Among us," he continued, "the best heads, _les meilleures tetes_,
have long been convinced of this. In reality, all peoples are alike;
only introduce good institutions, and the affair is settled. To be
sure, one may make some allowance for the existing life of the nation;
that is our business, the business of the people who are" (he all but
said "statesmen") "in the public service; but if need arises, don't be
uneasy. Those institutions will modify that life itself."

Maria Dmitrievna admiringly agreed with him. "What a clever man to
have talking in my house!" she thought. Liza kept silence, leaning
back in the recess of the window. Lavretsky kept silence too. Marfa
Timofeevna, who was playing cards in a corner with her friend,
grumbled something to herself. Panshine walked up and down the room,
speaking well, but with a sort of suppressed malice. It seemed as if
he was blaming, not so much a whole generation, as some individuals
of his acquaintance. A nightingale had made its home in a large lilac
bush which stood in the Kalitines' garden, and the first notes of its
even-song made themselves