'You're in a melancholy mood to-day, Yevgeny.'
'Really? The sun must have softened my brain, I suppose, and I can't stand so many raspberries either.'
'In that case, a nap's not a bad thing,' observed Arkady.
'Certainly; only don't look at me; every man's face is stupid when he's asleep.'
'But isn't it all the same to you what people think of you?'
'I don't know what to say to you. A real man ought not to care; a real man is one whom it's no use thinking about, whom one must either obey or hate.'
'It's funny! I don't hate anybody,' observed Arkady, after a moment's thought.
'And I hate so many. You are a soft-hearted, mawkish creature; how could you hate any one?... You're timid; you don't rely on yourself much.'
'And you,' interrupted Arkady, 'do you expect much of yourself? Have you a high opinion of yourself?'
Bazarov paused. 'When I meet a man who can hold his own beside me,' he said, dwelling on every syllable, 'then I'll change my opinion of myself. Yes, hatred! You said, for instance, to-day as we passed our bailiff Philip's cottage—it's the one that's so nice and clean—well, you said, Russia will come to perfection when the poorest peasant has a house like that, and every one of us ought to work to bring it about.... And I felt such a hatred for this poorest peasant, this Philip or Sidor, for whom I'm to be ready to jump out of my skin, and who won't even thank me for it ... and why should he thank me? Why, suppose he does live in a clean house, while the nettles are growing out of me,—well what do I gain by it?'