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.