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

that?” cried Soloveitchik. “How was it possible for you to estimate the wealth of his spiritual emotions?”

“Such emotions were very monotonous. His life’s happiness consisted in the acceptance of every misfortune without a murmur, and its wealth, in the total renunciation of life’s joys and material benefits. He was a beggar by choice, a fantastic personage whose life was sacrificed to an idea of which he himself had no clear conception.”

Soloveitchik wrung his hands.

“Oh! you cannot imagine how it distresses me to hear this!” he exclaimed.

“Really, Soloveitchik, you’re quite hysterical,” said Sanine, in surprise. “I have not told you anything extraordinary. Possibly the subject is, to you, a painful one?”

“Oh! most painful. I am always thinking, thinking, till my head seems as if it would burst. Was all that really an error, nothing more? I grope about, as in a dark room, and there is no one to tell me what I ought to do. Why do we live? Tell me that.”

“Why? That nobody knows.”

“And should we not live for the future, so that later on, at least, mankind may have a golden age?”

“There will never be a golden age. If the world and mankind could become better all in a moment, then, perhaps, a golden age would be possible. But that cannot be. Progress towards improvement is slow, and man can only see the step in front of him, and that immediately behind him. You and I have not lived the life of a Roman slave, nor that of some savage of the Stone Age, and therefore we cannot appreciate the boon of our civilization. Thus, if there should ever be a golden age, the men of that period will not perceive any difference between their lives and those of their ancestors. Man moves along an endless road, and to wish to level the road to happiness would be like adding new units to a number that is infinite.”

“Then you believe that it all means nothing⁠—that all is of no avail?”

“Yes, that is what I think.”

“But what about your friend Lande? You yourself were⁠—”

“I loved Lande,” said Sanine gravely, “not because he was a Christian, but because he was sincere, and never swerved from his path, being undaunted by obstacles either ridiculous or formidable. It was as a personality that I prized Lande. When he died, his worth ceased to exist.”

“And don’t you think that such men have an ennobling influence upon life? Might not such men have followers or disciples?”

“Why should life be ennobled? Tell me that, first of all. And, secondly, one doesn’t want disciples. Men like Lande are born so. Christ was splendid; Christians, however, are but a sorry crew. The idea of his doctrine was a beautiful one, but they have made of it a lifeless dogma.”

Tired with talking, Sanine said no more. Soloveitchik remained silent also. There was great stillness around them, while overhead the stars seemed to maintain a conversation wordless and unending. Then Soloveitchik suddenly whispered something that sounded so weird that Sanine, shuddering, exclaimed:

“What’s that you said?”

“Tell me,” muttered Soloveitchik, “tell me what you think. Suppose a man can’t see his way clear, but is always thinking and worrying, as everything only perplexes and terrifies him⁠—tell me, wouldn’t it be better for him to die?”

“Well,” replied Sanine, who clearly read the other’s thoughts, “perhaps death in that case would be better. Thinking and worrying are of no avail. He only ought to live who finds joy in living; but for him who suffers, death is best.”

“That is what I thought, too,” exclaimed Soloveitchik, and he excitedly grasped Sanine’s hand. His face looked ghastly in the gloom; his eyes were like two black holes.

“You are a dead man,” said Sanine with inward apprehension, as he rose to go; “and for a dead man the best place is the grave. Goodbye.”

Soloveitchik apparently did not hear him, but sat there motionless. Sanine waited for a while and then slowly walked away. At the gate he stopped to listen, but could hear nothing. Soloveitchik’s figure looked blurred and indistinct in the darkness. Sanine, as if in response to a strange presentiment, said to himself:

“After all, it comes to the same thing whether he lives on like this or dies. If it’s not today, then it will be tomorrow.” He turned sharply round; the gate creaked on its hinges, and he found himself in the street.

On reaching the boulevard he heard, at a distance, someone running along and sobbing as if in great distress. Sanine stood still. Out of the gloom a figure emerged, and rapidly approached him. Again Sanine felt a sinister presentiment.

“What’s the matter?” he called out.

The figure stopped for a moment, and Sanine was confronted by a soldier whose dull face showed great distress.

“What has happened?” exclaimed Sanine.

The soldier murmured something and ran on, wailing as he went. As a phantom he vanished in the night.

“That was Sarudine’s servant,” thought Sanine, and then it flashed across him:

“Sarudine has shot himself!”

For a moment he peered into the darkness, and his brow grew cold. Between the dread mystery of night and the soul of this stalwart man a conflict, brief yet terrible, was in progress.

The town was asleep; the glimmering roadways lay bare and white beneath the sombre trees; the windows were like dull, watchful eyes glaring at the gloom. Sanine tossed his head and smiled, as he looked calmly in front of him.

“I am not guilty,” he said aloud. “One more or less⁠—”

Erect and resolute, he strode onward, an imposing spectre in the silent night.

XXXIII

The news that two persons had committed suicide on the same night spread rapidly through the little town. It was Ivanoff who told Yourii. The latter had just come back from a lesson, and was at work upon a portrait of Lialia. She posed for him in a light-coloured blouse, open at the neck, and her pretty shell-pink arms showed through the semitransparent stuff. The room was filled with sunlight which lit up her