For some time past Yourii Svarogitsch had been working at painting, of
which he was fond, and to which he devoted all his spare time. It had
once been his dream to become an artist, but want of money, in the
first place, and also his political activity prevented this, so that
now he painted occasionally, as a pastime, without any special end in
view.
For this reason, indeed, and because he had no training, art gave him
no pleasant satisfaction; it was a source of chagrin and of
disenchantment. Whenever his work did not prove successful, he became
irritable and depressed; if, on the other hand, it came out well, he
fell into a sort of gloomy reverie, conscious of the futility of his
efforts that brought him neither happiness nor success. Yourii had
taken a great fancy to Sina Karsavina. He liked tall, well-formed young
women with fine voices and romantic eyes. He thought her beauty and
purity of soul were what attracted him, though really it was because
she was handsome and desirable. However, he tried to persuade himself
that, for him, her charm was a spiritual, not a physical one, this
being, as he thought, a nobler, finer definition, though it was
precisely this maidenly purity and innocence of hers which fired his
blood and aroused desire. Ever since the evening when he first met her,
he had felt a vague yet vehement longing to sully her innocence, a
longing indeed that the presence of any handsome woman provoked.
And now that his thoughts were set on a comely girl, blithe, wholesome,
and full of the joy of life, Yourii had an idea that he would paint
Life. As most new ideas were wont to do, this one stirred him to
enthusiasm, and on this occasion he believed that he would bring his
task to a successful end.
Having prepared a huge canvas, he set to work with feverish haste, as
if he dreaded delay. When he first touched the canvas with colour,
producing a harmonious and pleasing effect, he felt a thrill of
delight, and the picture that was to be stood clearly before him with
all its details. As, however, the work progressed, so technical
difficulties became more numerous, and with these Yourii felt unable to
cope. All that in his imagination seemed luminous and beautiful and
strong, became thin and feeble on the canvas. Details no longer
fascinated him, but were annoying and depressing. In fact, he ignored
them and began to paint in a broad, slap-dash style. Thus, instead of a
clear, powerful portrayal of life, the picture became ever more plain
of a tawdry, slovenly female. There was nothing original or charming
about such a dull stereotyped piece of work, so he thought; a veritable
imitation of a Moukh drawing, banal in idea as in execution; and, as
usual, Yourii became sad and gloomy.
Had it not for some reason or other seemed shameful to weep, he would
have wept, hiding his face in the pillow, and sobbing aloud. He longed
to complain to some one about something, but not about his own
incompetence. Instead of this he gazed ruefully at the picture thinking
that life generally was tedious and sad and feeble, containing nothing
of interest to him, personally. It horrified him to look forward to
living, as he would have to do, for many years in this little town.
“Why, it is simply death!” thought Yourii, as his brow grew cold as
ice. Then he felt a desire to paint “Death.” Seizing a knife, he
angrily began to scrape off his picture of “Life.” It vexed him that
that which he had wrought with such enthusiasm should disappear with
such difficulty. The colour did not come off easily; the knife slipped
and twice cut the canvas. Then he found that chalk would make no mark
on the oil paint. This greatly troubled him. With a brush he commenced
to sketch in his subject in ochre, and then painted slowly, carelessly,
in a spiritless, dejected way. His present work, however, did not lose,
but gained by such slipshod methods and by the dull, heavy colour
scheme. The original idea of “Death” soon disappeared of itself; and so
Yourii proceeded to depict “Old Age” as a lean hag tottering along a
rough road in the dusk. The sun had sunk, and against the livid sky
sombre crosses were seen _en silhouette_. Beneath the weight of a heavy
black coffin the woman’s bony shoulders were bent, and her expression
was mournful and despairing, as with one foot she touched the brink of
an open grave. It was a picture appalling in its misery and gloom. At
lunch-time they sent for Yourii, but he did not go, and continued
working. Later on, Novikoff came to tell him something, but he neither
listened nor replied. Novikoff sighed, and sat down on the sofa. He
liked to be quiet and think matters over. He only came to see Yourii
because, at home, by himself, he was sad and worried. Lida’s refusal
still distressed him, and he could not be sure if he felt grieved or
humiliated. As a straightforward, indolent fellow, he had so far heard
nothing of the local gossip concerning Lida and Sarudine. He was not
jealous, but only sorrowful that the dream which brought happiness so
near to him had fled.
Novikoff thought that his life was a failure, but it never occurred to
him to end it, since to live on was futile. On the contrary, now that
his life had become a torture to him, he considered that it was his
duty to devote it to others, putting his own happiness aside. Without
being able to account for it, he had a vague desire to throw up
everything and go to St. Petersburg where he could renew his connection
with “the party” and rush headlong to death. This was a fine, lofty
thought, so he believed, and the knowledge that it was his lessened his
grief, and even gladdened him. He became grand in his own eyes, crowned
as with a shining aureole, and his sadly reproachful attitude towards
Lida almost moved him to tears.
Then he suddenly felt bored. Yourii went on painting, and gave him no
attention whatever. Novikoff got up lazily and approached the picture.
It was still unfinished, and for that reason produced the effect of a
somewhat powerful sketch. Yourii had got as far as he could go.
Novikoff thought it was wonderful, as with open mouth he gazed in
childish admiration at the artist.
“Well?” said Yourii, stepping backwards.
Personally, he thought it the most interesting picture that he had ever
seen, though certainly it had defects both obvious and considerable.
Why he was of this opinion he could not tell, but if Novikoff had
thought the picture a bad one, he would have felt thoroughly hurt and
annoyed. However, Novikoff murmured ecstatically,
“Ve … ry fine indeed!”
Yourii felt as if he were a genius despising his own work. He sighed
and flung down his brush which stained the edge of the couch, and he
moved away without looking at the picture.
“Ah! my friend!” he exclaimed. He was on the point of confessing to
himself and to Novikoff the doubt which destroyed his pleasure in
succeeding, as he felt that he could never do anything with what was
now a promising sketch. However, after a moment of reflection he merely
said:
“All that is of no use at all!”
Novikoff thought that this was pose on his friend’s part, and mindful
of his own bitter disappointment he inwardly observed:
“That’s true.”
Then after a while he asked:
“How do you mean that it is of no use?”
To this question Yourii could give no exact answer, and he remained
silent. Novikoff examined the picture once more, and then lay down on
the sofa.
“I read your article in the _Krai_,” he said. “It was pretty hot.”
“The deuce take it!” replied Yourii, angrily, yet unable to account for
his anger, as he remembered Semenoff’s words. “What good will it do? It
won’t stop executions and robberies and violence; they will go on just
as before. Articles won’t help matters. For what purpose, pray? To be
read by two or three idiots! Much good that is! After all, what
business is it of mine? And why dash one’s brains out against a wall?”
Passing before his eyes, Yourii seemed to see the early years of his
political activity; the secret meetings, propaganda, risks and
reverses, his own enthusiasm and the profound apathy of those whom he
was so eager to save. He walked up and down the room, gesticulating.
“Then, it is not worth while doing anything,” drawled Novikoff, and,
thinking of Sanine, he added,
“Egoists, that’s all you are!”
“No, it’s not!” replied Yourii vehemently, influenced by his memories
of the past and by the dusk that gave a grey look to all things in the
room.
“If one speaks of Humanity, of what good are all our efforts in the
cause of constitutions or of revolutions if one cannot even
approximately estimate what humanity really requires? Perhaps in this
liberty of which we dream lie the germs of future degeneracy, and man,
having realized his ideal, will go back, walking once more on all
fours? Thus, all would have to be recommenced. And if I care for
nothing but myself, what then? What do I gain by it? The most I could
do would be to get fame by my talents and achievements, intoxicated by
the respect of my inferiors, that is to say by the respect of those
whom I do not esteem and whose veneration ought to be valueless to me.
And then? To go on living, living, until the grave—nothing after that!
And the crown of laurels would fit my skull so closely, that I should
soon find it irksome!”
“Always about himself!” muttered Novikoff, mockingly.
Yourii did not hear him, being morbidly pleased with his own eloquence.
There was a beautiful gloom about his utterances, so he thought; they
seemed to ennoble him, to heighten his sense of self-respect.
“At the worst, I should become a genius misjudged, a ridiculous
dreamer, a theme for humorous tales, a foolish individual, of no use to
anybody!”
“Aha!” cried Novikoff, as he rose from the couch, “Of no use to
anybody. You admit that yourself, then?”
“How absurd you are!” exclaimed Yourii, “do you really think that I
don’t know for what to live and in what to believe? Possibly I should
gladly submit to crucifixion if I believed that my death could save the
world. But I don’t believe this; and whatever I did would never alter
the course of history; moreover, my help would be so slight, so
insignificant, that the world would not have suffered a jot if I had
never existed. Yet, for the sake of such infinitesimal help, I am
obliged to live, and suffer, and sorrowfully wait for death.”
Yourii did not perceive that he was now talking of something quite
different, replying, not to Novikoff, but to his own strange,
depressing thoughts. Suddenly he remembered Semenoff, and stopped
short. A cold shiver ran down his spine.
“The fact is, I dread the inevitable,” he said in a low tone, as he
looked stolidly at the darkening window. “It is natural, I know, and
that I can do nothing to avoid it, but yet it is awful—hideous!”
Novikoff, though inwardly horrified at the truth of such a statement,
replied:
“Death is a necessary physiological phenomenon.”
“What a fool!” thought Yourii, as he irritably exclaimed,
“Good gracious me! What does it matter if our death is necessary to
anyone else or not?”
“How about your crucifixion?”
“That is a different thing,” replied Yourii, with some hesitation.
“You are contradicting yourself,” observed Novikoff in a slightly
patronising tone.
This greatly annoyed Yourii. Thrusting his fingers through his unkempt
black hair, he vehemently retorted:
“I never contradict myself. It stands to reason that if, of my own free
will, I choose to die—”
“It’s all the same,” continued Novikoff obdurately, in the same tone.
“All of you want fireworks, applause, and the rest of it. It’s nothing
else but egoism!”
“What if it is? That won’t alter matters.”
The discussion became confused. Yourii felt that he had not meant to
say that, but the thread escaped him which a moment before had seemed
so clear and tense. He paced up and down the room, endeavouring to
overcome his vexation, as he said to himself.
“Sometimes one is not in the humour. At other times one can speak as
clearly as if the words were set before one’s eyes. Sometimes I seem to
be tongue-tied, and I express myself clumsily. Yes, that often
happens.”
They were both silent. Yourii at last stopped by the window and took up
his cap.
“Let us go for a stroll,” he said.
“All right,” Novikoff readily assented, secretly hoping, while joyful
yet distressed, that he might meet Lida Sanine.