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

“So I see,” replied Sanine.

Novikoff shook the other’s hand and whispered hurriedly, as if by way of excuse, “Lidia Petrovna has got visitors.”

“Oh! yes.”

“Have we only come here to talk?” asked the Polytechnic student with some irritation. “Do let us make a start.”

“Then you have not begun yet?” said Novikoff, evidently pleased. He shook hands with the two workmen, who hastily rose from their seats. It was embarrassing to meet the doctor as a fellow-comrade, when at the hospital he was wont to treat them as his inferiors.

Goschienko, looking rather annoyed, then began.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are naturally all desirous to widen our outlook, and to broaden our views of life; and, believing that the best method of self-culture and of self-development lies in a systematic course of reading and an interchange of opinions regarding the books read, we have decided to start this little club.⁠ ⁠…”

“That’s right,” sighed Pistzoff approvingly, as he looked round at the company with his bright, dark eyes.

“The question now arises: What books ought we to read? Possibly someone here present could make a suggestion regarding the programme that should be adopted?”

Schafroff put on his glasses and slowly stood up. In his hand he held a small notebook.

“I think,” he began in his dry, uninteresting voice, “I think that our programme should be divided into two parts. For the purpose of intellectual development two elements are undoubtedly necessary: the study of life from its earliest stages, and the study of life as it actually is.”

“Schafroff’s getting quite eloquent,” cried Dubova.

“Knowledge of the former can be gained by reading standard books of historical and scientific value, and knowledge of the latter, by belles lettres, which bring us face to face with life.”

“If you go on talking to us like this, we shall soon fall fast asleep.” Dubova could not resist making this remark, and in her eyes there was a roguish twinkle.

“I am trying to speak in such a way as to be understood by all,” replied Schafroff gently.

“Very well! Speak as best you can!” said Dubova with a gesture expressing her resignation.

Sina Karsavina laughed at Schafroff, too, in her pretty way, tossing back her head and showing her white, shapely throat. Hers was a rich, musical laugh.

“I have drawn up a programme⁠—but perhaps it would bore you if I read it out?” said Schafroff, with a furtive glance at Dubova. “I propose to begin with The Origin of the Family side by side with Darwin’s works, and, in literature, we could take Tolstoy.”

“Of course, Tolstoy!” said Von Deitz, looking extremely pleased with himself as he proceeded to light a cigarette.

Schafroff paused until the cigarette was lighted, and then continued his list:

“Chekhov, Ibsen, Knut Hamsun⁠—”

“But we’ve read them all!” exclaimed Sina Karsavina.

Her delightful voice thrilled Yourii, and he said:

“Of course! Schafroff forgets that this is not a Sunday school. What a strange jumble, too! Tolstoy and Knut Hamsun⁠—”

Schafroff blandly adduced certain arguments in support of his programme, yet in so diffuse a way that no one could understand him.

“No,” said Yourii with emphasis, delighted to observe Sina Karsavina looking at him, “No, I don’t agree with you.” He then proceeded to expound his own views on the subject, and the more he spoke, the more he strove to win Sina’s approval, mercilessly attacking Schafroff’s scheme, and even those points with which he himself was in sympathy.

The burly Goschienko now gave his views on the subject. He considered himself the cleverest, most eloquent and most cultured of them all; moreover in a little club like this, which he had organized, he expected to play first fiddle. Yourii’s success annoyed him, and he felt bound to go against him. Being ignorant of Svarogitsch’s opinions, he could not oppose them en bloc, but only fixed upon certain weak points in his argument with which he stubbornly disagreed.

Thereupon a lengthy and apparently interminable discussion ensued. The Polytechnic student, Ivanoff, and Novikoff all began to argue at once, and through clouds of tobacco-smoke hot, angry faces could be seen, while words and phrases were hopelessly blent in a bewildering chaos devoid at last of all meaning.

Dubova gazed at the lamp, listening and dreaming. Sina Karsavina paid no attention, but opened the window facing the garden, and, folding her arms, leaned over the sill and looked out at the night. At first she could distinguish nothing, but gradually out of the gloom the dark trees emerged, and she saw the light on the garden-fence and the grass. A soft, refreshing breeze fanned her shoulders and lightly touched her hair.

Looking upwards, Sina could watch the swift procession of the clouds. She thought of Yourii and of her love. Her mood, if pleasurably pensive, was yet a little sad. It was so good to rest there, exposed to the cool night wind, and listen with all her heart to the voice of one man which to her ears sounded clearer and more masterful than the rest. Meanwhile the din grew greater, and it was evident that each person thought himself more cultivated and intelligent than his neighbours and was striving to convert them. Matters at last became so unpleasant that the most peaceable among them lost their tempers.

“If you judge like that,” shouted Yourii, his eyes flashing, for he was anxious not to yield in the presence of Sina, though she could only hear his voice, “then we must go back to the origin of all ideas.⁠ ⁠…”

“What ought we, then, in your opinion to read?” said the hostil Goschienko.

“What you ought to read? Why, Confucius, the Gospels, Ecclesiastes⁠ ⁠…”

“The Psalms and the Apocrypha,” was the Polytechnic student’s mocking interruption.

Goschienko laughed maliciously, oblivious of the fact himself had never read one of these works.

“Of what good would that be?” asked Schafroff in a tone of disappointment.

“It’s like they do in church!” tittered Pistzoff.

Yourii’s face flushed.

“I am not joking. If you wish to be logical, then⁠ ⁠…”

“Ah! but what did you say to me just now about Christ?” cried Von Deitz exultantly.

“What did I