Semanticate

src/epub/text/chapter-12.xhtml

@@ -48,7 +48,7 @@
 			<p>“Yes,” said Sitnikov, hurriedly, and he gave a shrill spasmodic laugh. “Well? Will you come?”</p>
 			<p>“I don’t really know.”</p>
 			<p>“You wanted to see people, go along,” said Arkady in an undertone.</p>
-			<p>“And what do you say to it, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Kirsanov?” Sitnikov put in. “You must come too; we can’t go without you.”</p>
+			<p>“And what do you say to it, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Kirsanov?” Sitnikov put in. “You must come too; we can’t go without you.”</p>
 			<p>“But how can we burst in upon her all at once?”</p>
 			<p>“That’s no matter. Kukshina’s a brick!”</p>
 			<p>“There will be a bottle of champagne?” asked Bazarov.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-14.xhtml

@@ -25,7 +25,7 @@
 			<p>“Really, how could I possibly.⁠ ⁠… But in that case, let me ask you for a mazurka.”</p>
 			<p>Madame Odintsov smiled graciously. “Certainly,” she said, and she looked at Arkady not exactly with an air of superiority, but as married sisters look at very young brothers. Madame Odintsov was a little older than Arkady⁠—she was twenty-nine⁠—but in her presence he felt himself a schoolboy, a little student, so that the difference in age between them seemed of more consequence. Matvy Ilyitch approached her with a majestic air and ingratiating speeches. Arkady moved away, but he still watched her; he could not take his eyes off her even during the quadrille. She talked with equal ease to her partner and to the grand official, softly turned her head and eyes, and twice laughed softly. Her nose⁠—like almost all Russian noses⁠—was a little thick; and her complexion was not perfectly clear; Arkady made up his mind, for all that, that he had never before met such an attractive woman. He could not get the sound of her voice out of his ears; the very folds of her dress seemed to hang upon her differently from all the rest⁠—more gracefully and amply⁠—and her movements were distinguished by a peculiar smoothness and naturalness.</p>
 			<p>Arkady felt some timidity in his heart when at the first sounds of the mazurka he began to sit it out beside his partner; he had prepared to enter into a conversation with her, but he only passed his hand through his hair, and could not find a single word to say. But his timidity and agitation did not last long; Madame Odintsov’s tranquillity gained upon him too; before a quarter of an hour had passed he was telling her freely about his father, his uncle, his life in Petersburg and in the country. Madame Odintsov listened to him with courteous sympathy, slightly opening and closing her fan; his talk was broken off when partners came for her; Sitnikov, among others, twice asked her. She came back, sat down again, took up her fan, and her bosom did not even heave more rapidly, while Arkady fell to chattering again, filled through and through by the happiness of being near her, talking to her, looking at her eyes, her lovely brow, all her sweet, dignified, clever face. She said little, but her words showed a knowledge of life; from some of her observations Arkady gathered that this young woman had already felt and thought much.⁠ ⁠…</p>
-			<p>“Who is that you were standing with?” she asked him, “when <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Sitnikov brought you to me?”</p>
+			<p>“Who is that you were standing with?” she asked him, “when <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Sitnikov brought you to me?”</p>
 			<p>“Did you notice him?” Arkady asked in his turn. “He has a splendid face, hasn’t he? That’s Bazarov, my friend.”</p>
 			<p>Arkady fell to discussing “his friend.” He spoke of him in such detail, and with such enthusiasm, that Madame Odintsov turned towards him and looked attentively at him. Meanwhile, the mazurka was drawing to a close. Arkady felt sorry to part from his partner; he had spent nearly an hour so happily with her! He had, it is true, during the whole time continually felt as though she were condescending to him, as though he ought to be grateful to her⁠ ⁠… but young hearts are not weighed down by that feeling.</p>
 			<p>The music stopped. “<i xml:lang="fr">Merci</i>,” said Madame Odintsov, getting up. “You promised to come and see me; bring your friend with you. I shall be very curious to see the man who has the courage to believe in nothing.”</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-21.xhtml

@@ -181,7 +181,7 @@
 			<p>“No; it won’t be easy. Some demon drove me to tease my father today; he had one of his rent-paying peasants flogged the other day, and quite right too⁠—yes, yes, you needn’t look at me in such horror⁠—he did quite right, because he’s an awful thief and drunkard; only my father had no idea that I, as they say, was cognisant of the facts. He was greatly perturbed, and now I shall have to upset him more than ever.⁠ ⁠… Never mind! Never say die! He’ll get over it!”</p>
 			<p>Bazarov said, “Never mind”; but the whole day passed before he could make up his mind to inform Vassily Ivanovitch of his intentions. At last, when he was just saying good night to him in the study, he observed, with a feigned yawn⁠—</p>
 			<p>“Oh⁠ ⁠… I was almost forgetting to tell you.⁠ ⁠… Send to Fedot’s for our horses tomorrow.”</p>
-			<p>Vassily Ivanovitch was dumbfounded. “Is <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Kirsanov leaving us, then?”</p>
+			<p>Vassily Ivanovitch was dumbfounded. “Is <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Kirsanov leaving us, then?”</p>
 			<p>“Yes; and I’m going with him.”</p>
 			<p>Vassily Ivanovitch positively reeled. “You are going?”</p>
 			<p>“Yes⁠ ⁠… I must. Make the arrangements about the horses, please.”</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-23.xhtml

@@ -67,7 +67,7 @@
 			<p>“Red, and not too large.”</p>
 			<p>She sat up again. “Here, take it,” she said, but at once drew back her outstretched hand, and, biting her lips, looked towards the entrance of the arbour, then listened.</p>
 			<p>“What is it?” asked Bazarov. “Nikolai Petrovitch?”</p>
-			<p>“No⁠ ⁠… <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Kirsanov has gone to the fields⁠ ⁠… besides, I’m not afraid of him⁠ ⁠… but Pavel Petrovitch⁠ ⁠… I fancied⁠ ⁠…”</p>
+			<p>“No⁠ ⁠… <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Kirsanov has gone to the fields⁠ ⁠… besides, I’m not afraid of him⁠ ⁠… but Pavel Petrovitch⁠ ⁠… I fancied⁠ ⁠…”</p>
 			<p>“What?”</p>
 			<p>“I fancied he was coming here. No⁠ ⁠… it was no one. Take it.” Fenitchka gave Bazarov the rose.</p>
 			<p>“On what grounds are you afraid of Pavel Petrovitch?”</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-24.xhtml

@@ -105,13 +105,13 @@
 			<p>“No, not at all; it’s capital,” answered Pavel Petrovitch; and after a brief pause, he added, “There’s no deceiving my brother; we shall have to tell him we quarrelled over politics.”</p>
 			<p>“Very good,” assented Bazarov. “You can say I insulted all anglomaniacs.”</p>
 			<p>“That will do capitally. What do you imagine that man thinks of us now?” continued Pavel Petrovitch, pointing to the same peasant, who had driven the hobbled horses past Bazarov a few minutes before the duel, and going back again along the road, took off his cap at the sight of the “gentlefolk.”</p>
-			<p>“Who can tell!” answered Bazarov; “it’s quite likely he thinks nothing. The Russian peasant is that mysterious unknown about whom <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Radcliffe used to talk so much. Who is to understand him! He doesn’t understand himself!”</p>
+			<p>“Who can tell!” answered Bazarov; “it’s quite likely he thinks nothing. The Russian peasant is that mysterious unknown about whom <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Radcliffe used to talk so much. Who is to understand him! He doesn’t understand himself!”</p>
 			<p>“Ah! so that’s your idea!” Pavel Petrovitch began; and suddenly he cried, “Look what your fool of a Piotr has done! Here’s my brother galloping up to us!”</p>
 			<p>Bazarov turned round and saw the pale face of Nikolai Petrovitch, who was sitting in the droshky. He jumped out of it before it had stopped, and rushed up to his brother.</p>
 			<p>“What does this mean?” he said in an agitated voice. “Yevgeny Vassilyitch, pray, what is this?”</p>
-			<p>“Nothing,” answered Pavel Petrovitch; “they have alarmed you for nothing. I had a little dispute with <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bazarov, and I have had to pay for it a little.”</p>
+			<p>“Nothing,” answered Pavel Petrovitch; “they have alarmed you for nothing. I had a little dispute with <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bazarov, and I have had to pay for it a little.”</p>
 			<p>“But what was it all about, mercy on us!”</p>
-			<p>“How can I tell you? <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bazarov alluded disrespectfully to Sir Robert Peel. I must hasten to add that I am the only person to blame in all this, while <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bazarov has behaved most honourably. I called him out.”</p>
+			<p>“How can I tell you? <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bazarov alluded disrespectfully to Sir Robert Peel. I must hasten to add that I am the only person to blame in all this, while <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bazarov has behaved most honourably. I called him out.”</p>
 			<p>“But you’re covered with blood, good Heavens!”</p>
 			<p>“Well, did you suppose I had water in my veins? But this bloodletting is positively beneficial to me. Isn’t that so, doctor? Help me to get into the droshky, and don’t give way to melancholy. I shall be quite well tomorrow. That’s it; capital. Drive on, coachman.”</p>
 			<p>Nikolai Petrovitch walked after the droshky; Bazarov was remaining where he was.⁠ ⁠…</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-25.xhtml

@@ -98,9 +98,9 @@
 			<p>Anna Sergyevna went farther along the path with a light rustle of her beautiful gown; Katya got up from the grass, and, taking Heine with her, went away too⁠—but not to try on her shoes.</p>
 			<p>“Charming little feet!” she thought, as she slowly and lightly mounted the stone steps of the terrace, which were burning with the heat of the sun; “charming little feet you call them.⁠ ⁠… Well, he shall be at them.”</p>
 			<p>But all at once a feeling of shame came upon her, and she ran swiftly upstairs.</p>
-			<p>Arkady had gone along the corridor to his room; a steward had overtaken him, and announced that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bazarov was in his room.</p>
+			<p>Arkady had gone along the corridor to his room; a steward had overtaken him, and announced that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bazarov was in his room.</p>
 			<p>“Yevgeny!” murmured Arkady, almost with dismay; “has he been here long?”</p>
-			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bazarov arrived this minute, sir, and gave orders not to announce him to Anna Sergyevna, but to show him straight up to you.”</p>
+			<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bazarov arrived this minute, sir, and gave orders not to announce him to Anna Sergyevna, but to show him straight up to you.”</p>
 			<p>“Can any misfortune have happened at home?” thought Arkady, and running hurriedly up the stairs, he at once opened the door. The sight of Bazarov at once reassured him, though a more experienced eye might very probably have discerned signs of inward agitation in the sunken, though still energetic face of the unexpected visitor. With a dusty cloak over his shoulders, with a cap on his head, he was sitting at the window; he did not even get up when Arkady flung himself with noisy exclamations on his neck.</p>
 			<p>“This is unexpected! What good luck brought you?” he kept repeating, bustling about the room like one who both imagines himself and wishes to show himself delighted. “I suppose everything’s all right at home; everyone’s well, eh?”</p>
 			<p>“Everything’s all right, but not everyone’s well,” said Bazarov. “Don’t be a chatterbox, but send for some kvass for me, sit down, and listen while I tell you all about it in a few, but, I hope, pretty vigorous sentences.”</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-5.xhtml

@@ -54,7 +54,7 @@
 			<p>“In our province, sixty-four miles from here. He has a small property there. He was formerly an army doctor.”</p>
 			<p>“Tut, tut, tut! To be sure, I kept asking myself, ‘Where have I heard that name, Bazarov?’ Nikolai, do you remember, in our father’s division there was a surgeon Bazarov?”</p>
 			<p>“I believe there was.”</p>
-			<p>“Yes, yes, to be sure. So that surgeon was his father. Hm!” Pavel Petrovitch pulled his moustaches. “Well, and what is <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bazarov himself?” he asked, deliberately.</p>
+			<p>“Yes, yes, to be sure. So that surgeon was his father. Hm!” Pavel Petrovitch pulled his moustaches. “Well, and what is <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bazarov himself?” he asked, deliberately.</p>
 			<p>“What is Bazarov?” Arkady smiled. “Would you like me, uncle, to tell you what he really is?”</p>
 			<p>“If you will be so good, nephew.”</p>
 			<p>“He’s a nihilist.”</p>

src/epub/text/criticisms-and-interpretations.xhtml

@@ -46,7 +46,7 @@
 			<section id="criticisms-and-interpretations-5" epub:type="z3998:subchapter">
 				<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
 				<p>Turgenev did for Russian literature what Byron did for English literature; he led the genius of Russia on a pilgrimage throughout all Europe. And in Europe his work reaped a glorious harvest of praise. Flaubert was astounded by him, George Sand looked up to him as to a master, Taine spoke of his work as being the finest artistic production since Sophocles. In Turgenev’s work, Europe not only discovered Turgenev, but it discovered Russia, the simplicity and the naturalness of the Russian character; and this came as a revelation. For the first time Europe came across the Russian woman whom Pushkin was the first to paint; for the first time Europe came into contact with the Russian soul; and it was the sharpness of this revelation which accounts for the fact of Turgenev having received in the west an even greater meed of praise than he was perhaps entitled to.</p>
-				<p>In Russia Turgenev attained almost instant popularity. His <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Sportsman’s Sketches</i> and his <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Nest of Gentlefolk</i> made him not only famous but universally popular. In 1862 the publication of his masterpiece <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Fathers and Children</i> dealt his reputation a blow. The revolutionary elements in Russia regarded his hero, Bazarov, as a calumny and a libel; whereas the reactionary elements in Russia looked upon <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Fathers and Children</i> as a glorification of Nihilism. Thus he satisfied nobody. He fell between two stools. This, perhaps, could only happen in Russia to this extent; and for that same reason as that which made Russian criticism didactic. The conflicting elements of Russian society were so terribly in earnest in fighting their cause, that anyone whom they did not regard as definitely for them was at once considered an enemy, and an impartial delineation of any character concerned in the political struggle was bound to displease both parties. If a novelist drew a Nihilist, he must be one or the other, a hero or a scoundrel, if either the revolutionaries or the reactionaries were to be pleased. If in England the militant suffragists suddenly had a huge mass of educated opinion behind them and a still larger mass of educated public opinion against them, and someone were to draw in a novel an impartial picture of a suffragette, the same thing would happen. On a small scale, as far as the suffragettes are concerned, it has happened in the case of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Wells. But if Turgenev’s popularity suffered a shock in Russia from which it with difficulty recovered, in western Europe it went on increasing. Especially in England, Turgenev became the idol of all that was eclectic, and admiration for Turgenev a hallmark of good taste.⁠ ⁠…</p>
+				<p>In Russia Turgenev attained almost instant popularity. His <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Sportsman’s Sketches</i> and his <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Nest of Gentlefolk</i> made him not only famous but universally popular. In 1862 the publication of his masterpiece <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Fathers and Children</i> dealt his reputation a blow. The revolutionary elements in Russia regarded his hero, Bazarov, as a calumny and a libel; whereas the reactionary elements in Russia looked upon <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Fathers and Children</i> as a glorification of Nihilism. Thus he satisfied nobody. He fell between two stools. This, perhaps, could only happen in Russia to this extent; and for that same reason as that which made Russian criticism didactic. The conflicting elements of Russian society were so terribly in earnest in fighting their cause, that anyone whom they did not regard as definitely for them was at once considered an enemy, and an impartial delineation of any character concerned in the political struggle was bound to displease both parties. If a novelist drew a Nihilist, he must be one or the other, a hero or a scoundrel, if either the revolutionaries or the reactionaries were to be pleased. If in England the militant suffragists suddenly had a huge mass of educated opinion behind them and a still larger mass of educated public opinion against them, and someone were to draw in a novel an impartial picture of a suffragette, the same thing would happen. On a small scale, as far as the suffragettes are concerned, it has happened in the case of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Wells. But if Turgenev’s popularity suffered a shock in Russia from which it with difficulty recovered, in western Europe it went on increasing. Especially in England, Turgenev became the idol of all that was eclectic, and admiration for Turgenev a hallmark of good taste.⁠ ⁠…</p>
 				<p><i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Fathers and Children</i> is as beautifully constructed as a drama of Sophocles; the events move inevitably to a tragic close. There is not a touch of banality from beginning to end, and not an unnecessary word; the portraits of the old father and mother, the young Kirsanov, and all the minor characters are perfect; and amidst the trivial crowd Bazarov stands out like Lucifer, the strongest⁠—the only strong character⁠—that Turgenev created, the first Nihilist⁠—for if Turgenev was not the first to invent the word, he was the first to apply it in this sense.</p>
 				<p>Bazarov is the incarnation of the Lucifer type that recurs again and again in Russian history and fiction, in sharp contrast to the meek, humble type of Ivan Durak. Lermontov’s Pechorin was in some respects an anticipation of Bazarov; so were the many Russian rebels. He is the man who denies, to whom art is a silly toy, who detests abstractions, knowledge, and the love of Nature; he believes in nothing; he bows to nothing; he can break, but he cannot bend; he does break, and that is the tragedy, but, breaking, he retains his invincible pride, and</p>
 				<blockquote epub:type="z3998:poem">