Shubin
‘What strikes
me most forcibly in the ants and beetles and other worthy insects is their
astounding seriousness. They run to and fro with such a solemn air, as though
their life were something of such importance! A man the lord of creation, the
highest being, stares at them, if you please, and they pay no attention to him.
Why, a gnat will even settle on the lord of creation’s nose, and make use of
him for food. It’s most offensive. And, on the other hand, how is their life
inferior to ours? And why shouldn’t they take themselves seriously, if we are
to be allowed to take ourselves seriously? There now, philosopher, solve that
problem for me! Why don’t you speak? Eh?’
****
Bersenyev
‘There’s no
need of that, but I wanted to ask you—don’t be angry with me, Andrei
Petrovitch—don’t go to him to-morrow!’
Bersenyev bit
his lip.
‘Ah! yes, I
understand; very well, very well,’ and, adding two or three words more, he
quickly took leave.
‘So much the
better, so much the better,’ he thought, as he hurried home. ‘I have learnt
nothing new, but so much the better. What possessed me to go hanging on to the
edge of another man’s happiness? I regret nothing; I have done what my
conscience told me; but now it is over. Let them be! My father was right when
he used to say to me: “You and I, my dear boy, are not Sybarites, we are not
aristocrats, we’re not the spoilt darlings of fortune and nature, we are not
even martyrs—we are workmen and nothing more. Put on your leather apron,
workman, and take your place at your workman’s bench, in your dark workshop,
and let the sun shine on other men! Even our dull life has its own pride, its
own happiness!”’
The next
morning Insarov got a brief note by the post. ‘Expect me,’ Elena wrote to him,
‘and give orders for no one to see you. A. P. will not come.’
****
Elena
Oh, how still
and kindly was the night, what dovelike softness breathed in the deep-blue air!
Every suffering, every sorrow surely must be soothed to slumber under that
clear sky, under that pure, holy light! ‘O God,’ thought Elena, ‘why must there
be death, why is there separation, and disease and tears? or else, why this
beauty, this sweet feeling of hope, this soothing sense of an abiding refuge,
an unchanging support, an everlasting protection? What is the meaning of this
smiling, blessing sky; this happy, sleeping earth? Can it be that all that is
only in us, and that outside us is eternal cold and silence? Can it be that we
are alone... alone... and there, on all sides, in all those unattainable depths
and abysses—nothing is akin to us; all, all is strange and apart from us? Why,
then, have we this desire for, this delight in prayer?’ (Morir si giovane was
echoing in her heart.)... ‘Is it impossible, then, to propitiate, to avert, to
save... O God! is it impossible to believe in miracle?’ She dropped her head on
to her clasped hands. ‘Enough,’ she whispered. ‘Indeed enough! I have been
happy not for moments only, not for hours, not for whole days even, but for
whole weeks together. And what right had I to happiness?’ She felt terror at
the thought of her happiness. ‘What, if that cannot be?’ she thought. ‘What, if
it is not granted for nothing? Why, it has been heaven... and we are mortals,
poor sinful mortals.... Morir si giovane. Oh, dark omen, away! It’s not only
for me his life is needed!
****
