"There's something dreadful about death," he said.

"Why?" asked Peter Ilitsch. "Death? Ho! ho!! It's absolutely necessary.

Death? Suppose one went on living for ever? Ho! ho!! You mustn't talk like that! Eternal life, indeed! What would eternal life be, eh?"

Yourii at once tried to imagine what living for ever would be like. He saw an endless grey stripe that stretched aimlessly away into s.p.a.ce, as though swept onward from one wave to another. All conception of colour, sound and emotion was blurred and dimmed, being merged and fused in one grey turbid stream that flowed on placidly, eternally. This was not life, but everlasting death. The thought of it horrified him.

"Yes, of course," he murmured.

"It appears to have made a great impression upon you," said Ivanoff.

"Upon whom does it not make an impression?" asked Yourii. Ivanoff shook his head vaguely, and began to tell Ilitsch about s.e.m.e.noff's last moments. It was now insufferably close in the room. Yourii watched Ivanoff, as his red lips sipped the vodka that shone in the lamplight.

Everything seemed to be going round and round.

"A--a--a--a--a!" whispered a voice in his ear, a strange small voice.

"No! death is an awful thing!" he said again, without noticing that he was replying to the mysterious voice. "You're over-nervous about it,"

observed Ivanoff contemptuously.

"Aren't you?" said Yourii.

"I? N--no! Certainly, I don't want to die, as there's not much fun in it, and living is far jollier. But, if one has to die, I should like it to be quickly, without any fuss or nonsense."

"You have not tried yet!" laughed Sanine.

"No; that's quite true!" replied the other.

"Ah! well," continued Yourii, "one has heard all that before. Say what you will, death is death, horrible in itself, and sufficient to rob a man of all pleasure in life who thinks of such a violent and inevitable end to it. What is the meaning of life?"

"It has no meaning," cried Ivanoff irritably.

"No, that is impossible," replied Yourii, "everything is too wisely and carefully arranged, and--"

"In my opinion," said Sanine, "there's nothing good anywhere."

"How can you say that? What about Nature?"

"Nature! Ha, ha!" Sanine laughed feebly, and waved his hand in derision. "It is customary, I know, to say that Nature is perfect. The truth is, that Nature is just as defective as mankind. Without any great effort of imagination any of us could present a world a hundred times better than this one. Why should we not have perpetual warmth and light, and a garden ever verdant and ever gay? As to the meaning of life, of course it has a meaning of some sort, because the aim implies the march of things; without an aim all would be chaos, But this aim lies outside the pale of our existence, in the very basis of the universe. That is certain. We cannot be the origin nor the end of the universe. Our role is a pa.s.sive, and auxiliary one. By the mere fact of living we fulfil our mission. Our life is necessary; thus our death is necessary also."

"For what?"

"How should I know?" replied Sanine, "and, besides, what do I care? My life means my sensations, pleasant or unpleasant; what is outside those limits; well, to the deuce with it all! Whatever hypothesis we may like to invent, it will always remain an hypothesis upon which it would be folly to construct life. Let him who likes worry about it; as for me, I mean to live!"

"Let us all have a drink on the strength of it!" suggested Ivanoff.

"But you believe in G.o.d, don't you?" said Ilitsch, looking at Sanine with bleared eyes. "Nowadays n.o.body believes in anything--not even in that which is easy of belief."

Sanine laughed. "Yes, I believe in G.o.d. As a child I did that, and there's no need to dispute or to affirm any reasons for doing so. It's the most profitable thing, really, for if there is a G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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? G.o.d is G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 gla.s.s 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 embarra.s.sed 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 window-pane. 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, good-bye!"

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.