He had two lives, as it were; his former life, ample and obvious, which
could not give a thought to death, but ignored it, being concerned
about its own affairs, While hoping to live on for ever, cost what it
might; and another life, mysterious, indefinite, obscure, that, as a
worm in an apple, secretly gnawed at the core of his former life,
poisoning it, making it insufferable.
It was owing to this double life that Semenoff, when at last he found
himself face to face with death and knew that his end was nigh, felt
scarcely any fear. "Already?" That is all he asked, in order to know
exactly what to expect.
When in the faces of those around him he read the answer to his
question, he merely wondered that the end should seem so simple, so
natural, like that of some heavy task, which had overtaxed his powers.
At the same time, by a new and strange inner consciousness he perceived
that it could not be otherwise, and that death was the normal result of
his enfeebled vitality. He only felt sorry that he would never see
anything again. As they took him in a droschky to the hospital, he
gazed about him with wide-opened eyes, striving to note everything at a
glance, grieved that he could not firmly fix in his memory every little
detail of this world with its ample sky, its human beings, its verdure,
and its distant blue horizons. Equally dear, in fact, unspeakably
precious to him, were all the little things that he had never noticed,
as well as those which he had always found full of beauty and
importance; the heaven, dark and vast, with its golden stars, the
driver's gaunt back, in its shabby smock; Novikoff's troubled
countenance; the dusty road; houses with their lighted windows; the
dark trees that silently stayed behind; the jolting wheels; the soft
evening breeze--all that he could see, and hear, and feel.
Later on, in the hospital, his eyes wandered swiftly round the large
room, watching every movement, every figure intently until prevented by
physical pain which produced a sense of utter isolation. His
perceptions were now concentrated in his chest, the source of all his
suffering. Gradually, very gradually, he began to drift away from life.
When now he saw something, it seemed to him strange and meaningless.
The last fight between life and death had begun; it filled his whole
being; it created a new world, strange and lonely, a world of terror,
agony and despairing conflict. Now and again there were more lucid
moments; the pain ceased; his breathing was deeper and calmer, and
through the white veil sounds and shapes became more or less plain. But
all seemed faint and futile, as if they came from afar. He heard sounds
plainly, and then again they were inaudible; the figures moved
noiselessly as those in a cinematograph; familiar faces appeared
strange and he could not recollect them.