Sanine

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.