"What about your own self-confidence?" interrupted Arkady. "What about your own opinion of yourself?"
Bazarov paused—then replied:
"As we were passing the hut of your starosta to-day (what a neat, pretty little place it looked!) you said to me: 'Not until every peasant shall have come to own such a place as this, and every one of us shall have contributed his mite to that end, will Russia attain perfection.' But, for my part, I abominate the scurvy churl for whom I am supposed to jump out of my skin, even though never a 'thank you' should I get from him for doing so. For why should he thank me? His métier happens to be living in a white hut, and mine to be——"
"Come, come, Evgenii! One is almost forced to agree with those who accuse us of being unprincipled."
"You talk like your uncle. No such thing as principle exists. That you seem never to have divined. Instincts only exist, and upon them everything depends."
"How so?"
"Thus. We will take myself as an example. Owing to the nature of my instincts, I am prone to deny—I am prone to deny because my brain is so constituted. In the same way, if you were to ask me why I am interested in chemistry, and why you like apples, I should reply that the same reason holds good in each case—that our respective instincts are what they are. In other words, there exists between your instincts and mine a certain affinity. Deeper it is not given us to probe."
"Then is honour an instinct?"
"It is."
"Oh, Evgenii!" cried Arkady sorrowfully.