'Undoubtedly,' cried Pigasov, 'pride--that I understand, and you, I
expect, understand, and every one understands; but truth, what is
truth? Where is it, this truth?'

'You are repeating yourself, let me warn you,' remarked Darya
Mihailovna.

Pigasov shrugged his shoulders.

'Well, where's the harm if I do? I ask: where is truth? Even the
philosophers don't know what it is. Kant says it is one thing; but
Hegel--no, you're wrong, it's something else.'

'And do you know what Hegel says of it?' asked Rudin, without raising
his voice.

'I repeat,' continued Pigasov, flying into a passion, 'that I cannot
understand what truth means. According to my idea, it doesn't exist at
all in the world, that is to say, the word exists but not the thing
itself.'

'Fie, fie!' cried Darya Mihailovna, 'I wonder you're not ashamed to
say so, you old sinner! No truth? What is there to live for in the
world after that?'

'Well, I go so far as to think, Darya Mihailovna,' retorted Pigasov,
in a tone of annoyance, 'that it would be much easier for you, in any
case, to live without truth than without your cook, Stepan, who is
such a master hand at soups! And what do you want with truth, kindly
tell me? you can't trim a bonnet with it!'