On reaching his room, narrow and stuffy as a prison-cell, Yourii found
life as dreary as ever, and his little love-episode seemed to him
thoroughly commonplace.
“I stole a kiss from her! What bliss! How heroic of me! How exquisitely
romantic! In the moonlight the hero beguiles the fair maid with burning
words and kisses! Bah! what rubbish! In such a cursed little hole as
this one insensibly becomes a shallow fool.”
When he lived in a city, Yourii imagined that the country was the real
place for him where he could associate with peasants and share in their
rustic toil beneath a burning sun. Now that he had the chance to do
this, village life seemed insufferable to him, and he longed for the
stimulus of a town where alone his energies could have scope.
“The stir and bustle of a city! The thrill of passionate eloquence!” so
he rapturously phrased it to himself; yet he soon checked such boyish
enthusiasm.
“After all, what does it mean? What are politics and science? Great as
ideals in the distance, yes! But in the life of each individual they’re
only a trade, like anything else! Strife! Titanic efforts! The
conditions of modern existence make all that impossible. I suffer, I
strive, I surmount obstacles! Well, what then? Where’s the end of it?
Not in my lifetime, at any rate! Prometheus wished to give fire to
mankind, and he did so. That was a triumph, if you like! But what about
us? The most we do is to throw faggots on a fire that we have never
kindled, and which by us will never be put out.”
It suddenly struck him that if things were wrong it was because he,
Yourii, was not a Prometheus. Such a thought, in itself most
distressing, yet gave him another opportunity for morbid self-torture.
“What sort of a Prometheus am I? Always looking at everything from a
personal, egotistic point of view. It is I, always I; always for
myself. I am every bit as weak and insignificant as the other people
that I heartily despise.”
This comparison was so displeasing to him that his thoughts became
confused, and for a while he sat brooding over the subject,
endeavouring to find a justification of some kind.
“No, I am not like the others,” he said to himself, feeling, in a
sense, relieved, “because I think about these things. Fellows like
Riasantzeff and Novikoff and Sanine would never dream of doing so. They
have not the remotest intention of criticising themselves, being
perfectly happy and self-satisfied, like Zarathustra’s triumphant pigs.
The whole of life is summed up in their own infinitesimal _ego_; and by
their spirit of shallowness it is that I am infected. Ah, well! when
you are with wolves you’ve got to howl. That is only natural.”
Yourii began to walk up and down the room, and, as often happens, his
change of position brought with it a change in his train of thought.
“Very well. That’s so. All the same, a good many things have to be
considered. For instance, what is my position with regard to Sina
Karsavina? Whether I love her or not it doesn’t much matter. The
question is, what will come of it all? Suppose I marry her, or become
closely attached to her. Will that make me happy? To betray her would
be a crime, and if I love her … Well, then, I can … In all probability
she would have children.” He blushed at the thought. “There’s nothing
wrong about that, only it would be a tie, and I should lose my freedom.
A family man! Domestic bliss! No, that’s not in my line.”
“One … two … three,” he counted, as he tried each time to step across
two boards and set his foot on the third one. “If I could be sure that
she would not have children, or that I should get so fond of them that
my whole life would be devoted to them! No; how terribly commonplace!
Riasantzeff would be fond of his children, too. What difference would
there then be between us? A life of self-sacrifice! That is the real
life! Yes, but of sacrifice for whom? And in what way? No matter what
road I choose nor at what goal I aim, show me the pure and perfect
ideal for which it were worth while to die! No, it is not that I am
weak; it is because life itself is not worthy of sacrifice nor of
enthusiasm. Consequently there is no sense in living at all.”
Never before had this conclusion seemed so absolutely convincing to
him. On his table lay a revolver, and each time he passed it, while
walking up and down, its polished steel caught his eye.
He took it up and examined it carefully. It was loaded. He placed the
barrel against his temple.
“There! Like that!” he thought. “Bang! And it’s all over. Is it a wise
or a stupid thing to shoot oneself? Is suicide a cowardly act? Then I
suppose that I am a coward!”
The contact of cold steel on his heated brow was at once pleasant and
alarming.
“What about Sina?” he asked himself. “Ah! well, I shall never get her,
and so I leave to some one else this enjoyment.” The thought of Sina
awoke tender memories, which he strove to repress as sentimental folly.
“Why should I not do it?” His heart seemed to stop beating. Then once
more, and deliberately this time, he put the revolver to his brow and
pulled the trigger, His blood ran cold; there was a buzzing in his ears
and the room seemed to whirl round.
The weapon did not go off; only the click of the trigger could be
heard. Half fainting, his hand dropped to his side. Every fibre within
him quivered, his head swam, his lips were parched, and his hand
trembled so much that when he laid down the revolver it rattled against
the table.
“A fine fellow I am!” he thought as, recovering himself, he went to the
glass to see what he looked like.
“Then I’m a coward, am I?” “No,” he thought proudly, “I am not! I did
it right enough. How could I help it if the thing didn’t go off?”
His own vision looked out at him from the mirror; rather a solemn,
grave one, he thought. Trying to persuade himself that he attached no
importance to what he had just done, he put out his tongue and moved
away from the glass.
“Fate would not have it so,” he said aloud, and the sound of the words
seemed to cheer him.
“I wonder if anyone saw me?” he thought, as he looked round in alarm.
Yet all was still, and nothing could be heard moving behind the closed
door. To him it was as if nothing in the world existed and suffered in
this terrible solitude but himself. He put out the lamp, and to his
amazement perceived through a chink in the shutter the first red rays
of dawn. Then he lay down to sleep, and in dream was aware of something
gigantic that bent over him, exhaling fiery breath.