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

need to dispute or to affirm any reasons for doing so. It’s the most profitable thing, really, for if there is a God, I offer Him sincere faith, and, if there isn’t, well, all the better for me.”

“But on belief or on unbelief all life is based?” said Yourii.

Sanine shook his head, and smiled complacently.

“No, my life is not based on such things,” he said.

“On what, then?” asked Yourii, languidly. “A⁠—a⁠—a! I mustn’t drink any more,” he thought to himself, as he drew his hand across his cold, moist brow. If Sanine made any reply he did not hear it. His head was in a whirl, and for a moment he felt quite overcome.

“I believe that God exists,” continued Sanine, “though I am not certain, absolutely certain. But whether He does or not, I do not know Him, nor can I tell what He requires of me. How could I possibly know this, even though I professed the most ardent faith in Him? God is God, and, not being human, cannot be judged by human standards. His created world around us contains all; good and evil, life and death, beauty and ugliness⁠—everything, in fact, and thus all sense and all exact definition are lost to us, for His sense is not human, nor His ideas of good and evil human, either. Our conception of God must always be an idolatrous one, and we shall always give to our fetish the physiognomy and the garb suitable to the climatic conditions of the country in which we live. Absurd, isn’t it.”

“Yes, you’re right,” grunted Ivanoff, “quite right!”

“Then, what is the good of living?” asked Yourii, as he pushed back his glass in disgust, “or of dying, either?”

“One thing I know,” replied Sanine, “and that is, that I don’t want my life to be a miserable one. Thus, before all things, one must satisfy one’s natural desires. Desire is everything. When a man’s desires cease, his life ceases, too, and if he kills his desires, then he kills himself.”

“But his desires may be evil?”

“Possibly.”

“Well, what then.”

“Then⁠ ⁠… they must just be evil,” replied Sanine blandly, as he looked Yourii full in the face with his clear, blue eyes.

Ivanoff raised his eyebrows incredulously and said nothing. Yourii was silent also. For some reason or other he felt embarrassed by those clear, blue eyes, though he tried to keep looking at them.

For a few moments there was complete silence, so that one could plainly hear a night-moth desperately beating against the windowpane. Peter Ilitsch shook his head mournfully, and his drink-besotted visage drooped towards the stained, dirty newspaper. Sanine smiled again. This perpetual smile irritated and yet fascinated Yourii.

“What clear eyes he has!” thought he.

Suddenly Sanine rose, opened the window, and let out the moth. A wave of cool, pleasant air, as from soft wings, swept through the room.

“Yes,” said Ivanoff, in answer to his own thought, “there are no two men alike, so, on the strength of that, let’s have another drink.”

“No,” said Yourii, shaking his head, “I won’t have any more.”

“Eh⁠—why not?”

“I never drink much.”

The vodka and the heat had made his head ache. He longed to get out into the fresh air.

“I must be going,” he said, getting up.

“Where? Come on, have another drink!”

“No really, I ought to⁠—” stammered Yourii, looking for his cap.

“Well, goodbye!”

As Yourii shut the door he heard Sanine saying to Ilitsch, “Of course you’re not like children; they can’t distinguish good from bad; they are simple and natural; and that is why they⁠—” Then the door was closed, and all was still.

High in the heavens shone the moon, and the cool night-air touched Yourii’s brow. All seemed beautiful and romantic, and as he walked through the quiet moonlit streets the thought to him was dreadful that in some dark, silent chamber Semenoff lay on a table, yellow and stiff. Yet, somehow, Yourii could not recall those grievous thoughts that had recently oppressed him, and had shrouded the whole world in gloom. His mood was now of one tranquil sadness, and he felt impelled to gaze at the moon. As he crossed a white deserted square he suddenly thought of Sanine.

“What sort of man is that?” he asked himself.

Annoyed to think that there was a man whom he, Yourii, could not instantly define, he felt a certain malicious pleasure in disparaging him.

“A phrase-maker, that’s all he is! Formerly the fellow posed as a pessimist, disgusted with life and bent upon airing impossible views of his own; now, he’s trifling with animalism.”

From Sanine Yourii’s thoughts reverted to himself. He came to the conclusion that he trifled with nothing but that his thoughts, his sufferings, his whole personality, were original, and quite different from those of other men.

This was most agreeable; yet something seemed to be missing. Once more he thought of Semenoff. It was grievous to know that he should never set eyes upon him again, and though he had never felt any affection for Semenoff, he now had become near and dear to him. Tears rose to his eyes. He pictured the dead student lying in the grave, a mass of corruption, and he remembered these words of his:

“You’ll be living, and breathing this air, and enjoying this moonlight, and you’ll go past my grave where I lie.”

“Here, under my feet, like human beings, too,” thought Yourii, looking down at the dust. “I am trampling on brains, and hearts, and human eyes! Oh!⁠ ⁠… And I shall die, too, and others will walk over me, thinking just as I think now. Ah! before it is too late, one must live, one must live! Yes; but live in the right way, so that not a moment of one’s life be lost. Yet how is one to do that?”

The marketplace lay white and bare in the moonlight. All was silent in the town.

Never more shall singer’s lute
Tidings of him tell.

Yourii hummed this softly to himself. Then he said, aloud: “How tedious, sad, and dreadful it all is!” as if complaining to someone.