"Come to my place, and we will hold a memorial service for the
departed," said Ivanoff to Sanine. The latter nodded his acceptance. On
the way, they bought vodka and hors d'oeuvres, and overtook Yourii
Svarogitsch, who was walking slowly along the boulevard, looking much
depressed.
Semenoff's death had made a confused and painful impression upon him
which he found it necessary, yet almost impossible, to analyse.
"After all, it is simple enough!" said Yourii to himself, endeavouring
to draw a straight, short line in his mind. "Man never existed before
he was born; that does not seem to be terrible nor incomprehensible.
Man's existence ends when he dies. That is equally simple and easy to
comprehend. Death, the complete stoppage of the machine that creates
vital force, is perfectly comprehensible; there is nothing terrible
about it. There was once a boy named Youra who went to college and
fought with his comrades, who amused himself by chopping off the heads
of thistles and lived his own special and interesting life in his own
special way. This Youra died, and in his place quite another man walks
and thinks, the student, Yourii Svarogitsch. If they were to meet,
Youra would not understand Yourii, and might even hate him as a
possible tutor ready to cause him no end of annoyance. Therefore,
between them there is a gulf, and therefore, if the boy Youra is dead,
I am dead myself, though till now I never noticed it. That is how it
is. Quite natural and simple, after all! If one reflects, what do we
lose by dying? Life, at any rate, contains more sadness than happiness.
True it has its pleasures and it is hard to lose them, but death rids
us of so many ills, that in the end we gain by it. That's simple, and
not so terrible, is it?" said Yourii, aloud, with a sigh of relief; but
suddenly he started, as another thought seemed to sting him. "No, a
whole world, full of life and extraordinarily complicated, suddenly
transformed into nothing? No, that is not the transformation of the boy
Youra into Yourii Svarogitsch! That is absurd and revolting, and
therefore terrible and incomprehensible!"
With all his might Yourii strove to form a conception of this state
which no man finds it possible to support, yet which every man
supports, just as Semenoff had done.
"He did not die of fear, either," thought Yourii, smiling at the
strangeness of such a reflection. "No, he was laughing at us all, with
our priest, and our chanting, and tears. How was it that Semenoff could
laugh, knowing that in a few moments all would be at an end? Was he a
hero? No; it was not a question of heroism. Then death is not as
terrible as I thought."