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

seemed to him strange and meaningless. The last fight between life and death had begun; it filled his whole being; it created a new world, strange and lonely, a world of terror, agony and despairing conflict. Now and again there were more lucid moments; the pain ceased; his breathing was deeper and calmer, and through the white veil sounds and shapes became more or less plain. But all seemed faint and futile, as if they came from afar. He heard sounds plainly, and then again they were inaudible; the figures moved noiselessly as those in a cinematograph; familiar faces appeared strange and he could not recollect them.

On the adjoining bed a man with a quaint, clean-shaven face was reading aloud, but why he read, or to whom he read, Semenoff never troubled to think. He distinctly heard that the parliamentary elections had been postponed, and that an attempt had been made to assassinate a Grand Duke, but the words were empty and meaningless; like bubbles, they burst and vanished, leaving no trace. The man’s lips moved, his teeth gleamed, his round eyes rolled, the paper rustled, and the lamp shone from the ceiling round which large, black, fierce-looking flies revolved. In Semenoff’s brain something seemed to flame upwards, illuminating all that surrounded him. He was suddenly conscious that all was now of no account to him, and that all the work and business in the world could not add one single hour to his life; but that he must die. Once more he sank down into the waves of black mist; again the silent conflict began between two terrible and secret forces, the one convulsively striving to destroy the other.

The second time that Semenoff regained consciousness was when he heard weeping and chanting. This seemed to him utterly unnecessary, having no sort of relation to all that was going on within him. For a moment, however, it lighted up the flame in his brain, and Semenoff clearly perceived the mock-mournful face of a man who was absolutely uninteresting to him. That was the last sign of life. What followed was for those living wholly beyond the pale of their thought or comprehension.

XII

“Come to my place, and we will hold a memorial service for the departed,” said Ivanoff to Sanine. The latter nodded his acceptance. On the way, they bought vodka and hors d’oeuvres, and overtook Yourii Svarogitsch, who was walking slowly along the boulevard, looking much depressed.

Semenoff’s death had made a confused and painful impression upon him which he found it necessary, yet almost impossible, to analyse.

“After all, it is simple enough!” said Yourii to himself, endeavouring to draw a straight, short line in his mind. “Man never existed before he was born; that does not seem to be terrible nor incomprehensible. Man’s existence ends when he dies. That is equally simple and easy to comprehend. Death, the complete stoppage of the machine that creates vital force, is perfectly comprehensible; there is nothing terrible about it. There was once a boy named Youra who went to college and fought with his comrades, who amused himself by chopping off the heads of thistles and lived his own special and interesting life in his own special way. This Youra died, and in his place quite another man walks and thinks, the student, Yourii Svarogitsch. If they were to meet, Youra would not understand Yourii, and might even hate him as a possible tutor ready to cause him no end of annoyance. Therefore, between them there is a gulf, and therefore, if the boy Youra is dead, I am dead myself, though till now I never noticed it. That is how it is. Quite natural and simple, after all! If one reflects, what do we lose by dying? Life, at any rate, contains more sadness than happiness. True it has its pleasures and it is hard to lose them, but death rids us of so many ills, that in the end we gain by it. That’s simple, and not so terrible, is it?” said Yourii, aloud, with a sigh of relief; but suddenly he started, as another thought seemed to sting him. “No, a whole world, full of life and extraordinarily complicated, suddenly transformed into nothing? No, that is not the transformation of the boy Youra into Yourii Svarogitsch! That is absurd and revolting, and therefore terrible and incomprehensible!”

With all his might Yourii strove to form a conception of this state which no man finds it possible to support, yet which every man supports, just as Semenoff had done.

“He did not die of fear, either,” thought Yourii, smiling at the strangeness of such a reflection. “No, he was laughing at us all, with our priest, and our chanting, and tears. How was it that Semenoff could laugh, knowing that in a few moments all would be at an end? Was he a hero? No; it was not a question of heroism. Then death is not as terrible as I thought.”

While he was musing thus Ivanoff suddenly hailed him in a loud voice.

“Ah! it’s you! Where are you going?” asked Yourii, shuddering.

“To say a mass for our departed friend,” replied Ivanoff, with brutal jocularity. “You had better come with us. What’s the good of being always alone?”

Feeling sad and dispirited, Yourii did not find Sanine and Ivanoff as distasteful to him as usual.

“Very well, I will,” he replied, but suddenly recollecting his superiority, he thought to himself, “what have I really in common with such fellows? Am I to drink their vodka, and talk commonplaces?”

He was on the point of turning back, but he felt such an utter horror of solitude that he went along with them. Ivanoff and Sanine proffered no remarks, and thus in silence they reached the former’s lodging. It was already quite dark. At the door, the figure of a man could be dimly seen. He had a thick stick with a crooked handle.

“Oh! it’s Uncle Peter Ilitsch!” exclaimed Ivanoff gleefully.

“Yes! that’s he!” replied