Sanine

Then he sought to live in seclusion, to become absorbed in himself, and

in solitude to suffer, having full, steadfast consciousness of his

impending doom. Yet, as in his life and his daily surroundings, all

remained the same as formerly, it seemed absurd to imagine that it

could be otherwise, or that he, Semenoff, would no longer exist as at

the present. The thought of death, which at first had made so deep a

wound, grew less poignant; the soul oppressed found freedom. Moments of

complete forgetfulness became more and more frequent, and life once

again lay before him, rich in colour, in movement, in sound.

It was only at night-time, when alone, that he was haunted by the sense

of a black abyss. After he had put out the lamp, something devoid of

form or features rose up slowly above him in the gloom, and whispered,

"Sh ... sh ... sh!" without ceasing, while to this whispering another

voice, as from within him, made hideous answer. Then he felt that he

was gradually becoming part of this murmuring and this abysmal chaos.

His life in it seemed as a faint, flickering flame that might at any

moment fade for ever. Then he decided to keep a lamp burning in his

room throughout the night. In the light, the strange whisperings

ceased, the darkness vanished; nor had he the impression of being

poised above a yawning abyss, because light made him conscious of a

thousand trivial and ordinary details in his life; the chairs, the

light, the inkstand, his own feet, an unfinished letter, an ikon,

with its lamp that he had never lighted, boots that he had forgotten to

put outside the door, and many other everyday things that surrounded

him.

Yet, even then, he could hear whisperings that came from the corners of

the room which the light of the lamp did not reach, and again the black

gulf yawned to receive him. He was afraid to look into the darkness, or

even to think of it, for then, in a moment, dreadful gloom surrounded

him, veiling the lamp, hiding the world as with a cold, dense mist from

his view. It was this that tortured, that appalled him. He felt as if

he must cry like a child, or beat his head against the wall. But as the

days went past, and Semenoff drew nearer to death, he grew more used to

such impressions. They only became stronger and more awful if by a word

or a gesture, by the sight of a funeral or of a graveyard, he was

reminded that he, too, must die. Anxious to avoid such warnings, he

never went into any street that led to the cemetery, nor ever slept on

his back with hands folded across his breast.