Sergey Ivanovitch merely shrugged his shoulders, as though to

express his wonder how the birch branches had come into their

argument at that point, though he did really understand at once

what his brother meant.

"Excuse me, but you know one really can't argue in that way," he

observed.

But Konstantin Levin wanted to justify himself for the failing,

of which he was conscious, of lack of zeal for the public

welfare, and he went on.

"I imagine," he said, "that no sort of activity is likely to be

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lasting if it is not founded on self-interest, that's a universal

principle, a philosophical principle," he said, repeating the

word "philosophical" with determination, as though wishing to

show that he had as much right as any one else to talk of

philosophy.

Sergey Ivanovitch smiled. "He too has a philosophy of his own at

the service of his natural tendencies," he thought.

"Come, you'd better let philosophy alone," he said. "The chief

problem of the philosophy of all ages consists just in finding

the indispensable connection which exists between individual and

social interests. But that's not to the point; what is to the

point is a correction I must make in your comparison. The

birches are not simply stuck in, but some are sown and some are

planted, and one must deal carefully with them. It's only those

peoples that have an intuitive sense of what's of importance and

significance in their institutions, and know how to value them,

that have a future before them--it's only those peoples that one

can truly call historical."

And Sergey Ivanovitch carried the subject into the regions of

philosophical history where Konstantin Levin could not follow

him, and showed him all the incorrectness of his view.

"As for your dislike of it, excuse my saying so, that's simply

our Russian sloth and old serf-owner's ways, and I'm convinced

that in you it's a temporary error and will pass."

Konstantin was silent. He felt himself vanquished on all sides,

but he felt at the same time that what he wanted to say was

unintelligible to his brother. Only he could not make up his

mind whether it was unintelligible because he was not capable of

expressing his meaning clearly, or because his brother would not

or could not understand him. But he did not pursue the

speculation, and without replying, he fell to musing on a quite

different and personal matter.

Sergey Ivanovitch wound up the last line, untied the horse, and

they drove off.




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