Sanine by Mikhail Artsybashev (ebook pdf reader for pc .TXT) 📕

my death could save the world. But I don’t believe this; and whatever I did would never alter the course of history; moreover, my help would be so slight, so insignificant, that the world would not have suffered a jot if I had never existed. Yet, for the sake of such infinitesimal help, I am obliged to live, and suffer, and sorrowfully wait for death.”

Yourii did not perceive that he was now talking of something quite different, replying, not to Novikoff, but to his own strange, depressing thoughts. Suddenly he remembered Semenoff, and stopped short. A cold shiver ran down his spine.

“The fact is, I dread the inevitable,” he said in a low tone, as he looked stolidly at the darkening window. “It is natural, I know, and that I can do nothing to avoid it, but yet it is awful⁠—hideous!”

Novikoff, though inwardly horrified at the truth of such a statement, replied:

“Death is a necessary physiological phenomenon.”

“What a fool!” thought Yourii, as he irritably exclaimed,

“Good gracious me! What does it matter if our death is necessary to anyone else or not?”

“How about your crucifixion?”

“That is a different thing,” replied Yourii, with some hesitation.

“You are contradicting yourself,” observed Novikoff in a slightly patronising tone.

This greatly annoyed Yourii. Thrusting his fingers through his unkempt black hair, he vehemently retorted:

“I never contradict myself. It stands to reason that if, of my own free will, I choose to die⁠—”

“It’s all the same,” continued Novikoff obdurately, in the same tone. “All of you want fireworks, applause, and the rest of it. It’s nothing else but egoism!”

“What if it is? That won’t alter matters.”

The discussion became confused. Yourii felt that he had not meant to say that, but the thread escaped him which a moment before had seemed so clear and tense. He paced up and down the room, endeavouring to overcome his vexation, as he said to himself.

“Sometimes one is not in the humour. At other times one can speak as clearly as if the words were set before one’s eyes. Sometimes I seem to be tongue-tied, and I express myself clumsily. Yes, that often happens.”

They were both silent. Yourii at last stopped by the window and took up his cap.

“Let us go for a stroll,” he said.

“All right,” Novikoff readily assented, secretly hoping, while joyful yet distressed, that he might meet Lida Sanine.

IX

They walked up and down the boulevard once or twice, meeting no one they knew, and they listened to the band which was playing as usual in the garden. It was a very poor performance; the music being harsh and discordant, but at a distance it sounded languorous and sad. They only met men and women joking and laughing, whose noisy merriment seemed at variance with the mournful music and the dreary evening. It irritated Yourii. At the end of the boulevard Sanine joined them, greeting them effusively. Yourii did not like him, so conversation was scarcely brisk. Sanine kept on laughing at everybody he saw. Later on they met Ivanoff, and Sanine went off with him.

“Where are you going?” asked Novikoff.

“To treat my friend,” replied Ivanoff, producing a bottle of vodka which he showed to them in triumph.

Sanine laughed.

To Yourii this vodka and laughter seemed singularly coarse and vulgar. He turned away in disgust. Sanine observed this, but said nothing.

“God, I thank Thee, that I am not as other men,” exclaimed Ivanoff mockingly.

Yourii reddened. “A stale joke like that into the bargain!” he thought, as, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, he walked away.

“Novikoff, guileless Pharisee, come along with us!” cried Ivanoff.

“What for?”

“To have a drink.”

Novikoff glanced round him ruefully, but Lida was not to be seen.

“Lida is at home, doing penance for her sins!” laughed Sanine.

“What nonsense!” exclaimed Novikoff testily. “I’ve got to see a patient⁠ ⁠…”

“Who is quite able to die without your help,” said Ivanoff. “For that matter, we can polish off the vodka without your help, either.”

“Suppose I get drunk?” thought Novikoff. “All right! I’ll come,” he said.

As they went away, Yourii could hear at a distance Ivanoff’s gruff bass voice and Sanine’s careless, merry laugh. He walked once more along the boulevard. Girlish voices called to him through the dusk. Sina Karsavina and the schoolmistress Dubova were sitting on a bench. It was now getting dark, and their figures were hardly discernible. They wore dark dresses, were without hats, and carried books in their hands. Yourii hastened to join them.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“At the library,” replied Sina.

Without speaking, her companion moved to make room for Yourii who would have preferred to sit next to Sina, but, being shy, he took a seat beside the ugly schoolteacher, Dubova.

“Why do you look so utterly miserable?” asked Dubova, pursing up her thin, dry lips, as was her wont.

“What makes you think that I am miserable? On the contrary I am in excellent spirits. Somewhat bored, perhaps.”

“Ah! that’s because you’ve nothing to do,” said Dubova.

“Have you so much to do, then?”

“At any rate, I have not the time to weep.”

“I am not weeping, am I?”

“Well,” said Dubova, teasing him, “you’re in the sulks.”

“My life,” replied Yourii, “has caused me to forget what laughing is.”

This was said in such a bitter tone that there was a sudden silence.

“A friend of mine told me that my life is most instructive,” said Yourii after a pause, though no one had ever made such a statement to him.

“In what way?” asked Sina cautiously.

“As an example of how not to live.”

“Oh! do tell us all about it. Perhaps we might profit by the lesson,” said Dubova.

Yourii considered that his life was an absolute failure, and that he himself was the most luckless and wretched of men. In such a belief there lay a certain mournful solace, and it was pleasant to him to complain about his own life and mankind in general. To men he never spoke of such things, feeling instinctively that they would not believe him, but to women, especially if they were young and pretty, he was